


cherry

by jeynestheon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Cheating, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Lyanna is Not a Stark, POV Alternating, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Westeros is a small town in Mississippi because I said so, loosely based off of sharp objects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:55:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25452001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeynestheon/pseuds/jeynestheon
Summary: “What about me?” Sansa says, finally.“What about you?”She says it all unsure, voice a little tentative. “Do you like me?”And he looks at her. Really looks at her. This face that looks so much like the one that belonged to the person he loved second most in the world. Same nose. Same eyes. Same sharp jaw. But there’s differences, too. She’s soft where Robb was brash. Quick witted where Robb tended to be slow on the uptake. Sad where Robb was hopeful. But Jon knows she has a reason to be sad.She lost him, too.“Yeah.” He whispers. “I like you just fine.”
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark/Aegon VI Targaryen, Sansa Stark/Aegon VI Targaryen
Comments: 82
Kudos: 406





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> I REWROTE! I was watching sharp objects as I was writing and I got an idea so I reworked it and it’s longer. The next chapter will be in Sansa’s POV but different events. Like I said before, Ole Miss is Blackwater University’s nickname.
> 
> uh anyways enjoy! Comment if you liked for the next chapter.
> 
> dt: han 🥺 i love you!

Westeros, Mississippi is a cancer.

That’s what Jon’s mother told him after Robb drowned. Her hands were shaking. She was crying as she said it.

“If we don’t leave now, we’ll never leave.” 

They used to talk about it all of the time. They’d go to California and get a place close to the ocean. They’d wash their clothes at the laundromat and dry them on a clothesline. They’d get bikes to ride through the city. No one would know who they had been, or the place they had fled from. 

But it wasn’t just about Westeros.

He was pretty sure she was talking about his father, too. His father, who he only saw on the weekends. His father, with his dying and sickly wife shut up in her bedroom. His father, who would come to their house when he thought he was sleeping, and go into his mother’s room. They thought he didn’t know.

Jon has always known too much.

* * *

They left in the middle of the night and didn't tell anyone. 

It helped that they lived on the wrong side of the tracks, so nobody really cared what they did or where they went. Rhaegar did, but that was more of a recent development. The only person who always cared was Robb. He’d been coming over since they were little, with his shiny new shoes and back to school jeans and they’d go running through the forest, hunting for cicadas, and building forts. Then they got older and started playing pranks on the prissy Ole Miss girls, spraying bayou water all over their dresses, and stealing cigarettes from the drug store. Then they got older than that and started drinking abandoned moonshine they found in the hollows of tree trunks, and kissing girls. 

But Robb was gone, and no one cared about them again. Everywhere was filled with a memory of him. Jon could hardly stand it. 

So when his mama told him that they were leaving, he just got in the car and didn't say a word. They were in Massachusetts the next day.

* * *

But his mama came back.

She did it after he graduated high school, when he got into Boston college. She did it when he gave her no other choice.

Because he started noticing things about her.

Like how she didn’t have any friends at work and how she never went out. And that she spent most of the weekends sleeping. He noticed that she barely laughed anymore. He heard her cry herself to sleep on more than one occasion.

The day after his birthday, he found a Blackwater State application crumpled in the trash. She wanted to give it to him. She wanted to tell him she wanted to go back. But that evening, he started talking about Boston College and Amherst and UMass and he hadn’t even let her speak. 

“Mom?” 

He was standing in her bedroom doorway. It was spring. His heart felt like it weighed a thousand pounds in his chest.

“Yeah?” His mother looked up at him. She was folding clothes, and putting them away.

He was never one for smalltalk, so he just said it. “I think you should go home.”

Her brow creased in confusion. She knew he wasn’t referring to Chatham. “I thought we were moving to Boston.”

Last week, he had gotten three letters of acceptance. She had screamed so loudly and she started crying. She was so proud of him. 

And Jon felt his heavy heart break. He spoke quietly, so his voice didn’t crack. “I’m moving to Boston, mom.”

She dropped her shirt. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s killing you.” He looked into her dark eyes, so much like his. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“You need to go home. Back to Westeros. Where you’ll be happy.”

She didn’t say, _this is home._ She didn’t say, _I’m already happy here._ That was one thing he loved about his mom. She never lied to him—not purposefully. 

“I can’t leave you.” She seemed offended that he would even suggest such a thing.

“You’re not leaving me. I’m not a kid.” Jon reminded her.

“You’ll always be a kid to me, Jon. My kid. My baby.” Her voice wavered. “I’m not _leaving_ you. So you need to stop talking about this nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense.” His nails bit into his hands as he squeezed. “We were never gonna be together forever.”

His mother stepped back, as if he hit her. 

“If you don’t leave me, then I’ll leave you first.” He continued. “And you don’t know which school I’ve chosen. So you can’t follow me.”

Tears were running down her cheeks. A sob burst from her lips. She muffled it with her hand. 

He wasn’t going to cry.

He couldn’t.

“Where will you stay? How are you gonna make it on your own?” She demanded. “You need me to—”

“I don’t need you.” His eyes burned. 

She flinched.

“I love you. So much.” Jon said, swallowing thickly. “But I don’t need you here. Mr. Mormont has a niece in Boston with an extra room. She said I could stay with her as long as I paid rent once I got a job. I don’t….I’m gonna be fine, Mama.”

_You won’t if you stay with me._

“I need you.” She whispered. “What about me?”

“What you need is to be happy again.” He counted his breaths, making sure they were steady. “You need to go home.”

His mother sagged onto the bed, shoulders slumped, and shaking. He came to sit beside her, pulling her close. Like she used to do to him when she was little. 

“You really don’t wanna go back there.” Her eyelashes were wet. Her lips trembled.

He was never going back there.

“You’ll go, and I’ll stay.” Jon whispered in her hair. “And we’ll be okay.”

Her breathing started to slow, but her voice was still choked. “I’ll visit.”

“Every holiday.” He promised. “It’ll be like you’re the one at college, and not me.”

She laughed, but it didn’t last. She was crying, again. And then he was crying too.

“We’ll be okay.” She said eventually.

* * *

12 years.

They were supposed to be okay for a lot longer than 12 years.

* * *

Jon’s first purchase when he gets back to Westeros is a bouquet of marigolds. 

They aren’t his mom’s favorite flower by far—weren’t, he has to keep reminding himself—but the lady who ran the shop didn’t have any winter roses, and she was in the middle of closing up. He’s lucky he got anything at all.

He’s back at the cemetery, sitting in the BMW he got for his 16th birthday. It was Rhaegar’s way of trying to make it up to him for not being there the last 15 years before that. Jon told him to go to hell, then. But now, he needs a way to get around town, and he’s not blowing money on a rental. 

Just being back in this town for six hours has meant swallowing a lot of his pride. Rhaegar paid for the entire funeral without telling him. He paid for his flight. He planned the reception afterwards. When Jon arrived, he felt like a stranger at his mother’s funeral rather than her only son. Children are supposed to take care of their parents, not let their father with a guilty conscience coddle them. The only thing he hadn’t touched was his mother’s house, and Jon is extremely relieved, because if he had, that would have been the last straw. He would have killed his own father, and had two dead parents instead of one.

It’s still something that he’s considering. It’s the main reason he’s at the cemetery right now, instead of at the pool house Rhaegar had made up for him to stay at. All of the hotels are filled thanks to the fourth of July festivities. Jon has no choice but to swallow his pride again, and take another handout from his father.

But he’ll see his mother one last time before he goes.

At the service, he lingered in the back. He didn’t wanna be seen. And a part of him didn’t wanna see the giant gaping hole his mother would be in for the rest of her life. But now, the hole is gone, filled back up with dirt. The coffin is six feet under. He hopes it’ll be easier this time. 

Jon locks the car, and starts to make his way. The ground is uneven and patchy. The air is hot and humid. He undoes his tie with one hand, then the first few buttons of his shirt next. He starts breathing a little easier, but the ache in his chest doesn’t subside, neither does the tightness in his throat. He keeps going. 

His mother’s grave would be unmistakable, because the dirt would be freshly turned, and there would be a place card instead of a tombstone. Apparently, those took a while to make, or so Rhaegar said. He tries to think back to Robb’s funeral and remember if he had one, but he comes up empty. It was such a long time ago. 

Jon finds the grave no problem, but at first, he thinks that maybe the whiskey he had earlier wasn’t quite gone. 

Ygritte is standing over his mother’s grave. But she’s not dressed like Ygritte. She’s wearing pink denim shorts and a big white men’s shirt and rollerskates. Ygritte wasn’t a stranger to men’s clothes, but she hated pink. And he didn’t think she could roller skate. Ygritte was also shorter than him. It had been awhile, but of that Jon is certain. But then he looks at the moonlight shining on her hair again and everything he knows feels like a lie.

She’s supposed to be gone.

“What are you doing here?” He hears himself say.

She turns.

It’s not Ygritte.

She doesn’t have enough freckles and her cheekbones are too high and her nose is too refined and her lashes are darker, _longer._ But he knows this face, too. He’s seen it in his nightmares, over the years, which takes place in this same cemetery, just a couple yards away. 

Sansa Stark is all grown up.

She doesn’t say anything to him, but she gives him this look. He thinks it’s relief. He hopes it is. But it just seems too sad to be true. Jon can’t help but feel like he’s disappointing her, even though he’s never had as much of a conversation with her. 

She extends her hand. She’s holding a winter rose, thorns and all.

His heart stops.

He doesn’t have time to focus on that, though, Her hand is soaked in red. He takes the rose from her hand, and drops it in the dirt to inspect the damage the thorns did. “You’re bleeding.” 

Sansa doesn’t seem to be in any pain. In fact, she looks at her hand and frowns at it like it’s an inconvenient weather forecast. “Oh.”

“Wait here.” He tells her.

Jon rushes back to his car. He didn’t bring a first aid kit. He should take her to the hospital. But judging from her dazed, delayed reaction, that would only summon questions from the doctors. He doesn’t want to get her in trouble. He only wants to help her. He grabs a shirt from his suitcase, and the whiskey bottle. 

Sansa is sitting on a tombstone, straight backed and legs crossed over each other like she’s at some kind of pageant. She smiles at him, and he suddenly remembers that case of trophies he saw in her bedroom that one time, when he walked in on Robb having a tea party with her. 

“You took quite awhile.” Her voice is lower than he expected. A warm, viscous, honey kind of low that takes him aback. Makes him uncomfortable. “I’m cold.”

She’s sweating. Her hair is up now. Stray strands are sticking to the side of her face. There’s a fine sheen of perspiration on her skin. It makes her skin look ethereal in the moonlight. The shirt she’s wearing is unbuttoned, revealing white, frilly, lace and a swell of pale skin. 

Jon resolves to only look at her face.

“I’m sure you are.” He gets down on his knees in front of her and inspects her hand.

“Did you get that whiskey from your car?” Sansa asks. Then, she narrows her eyes playfully, “Are you drinking and driving?”

He uncaps the whiskey and decides he needs a swig. It burns going down. He clears his throat. “Are you roller skating around town high at two in the morning?”

She laughs. It unsettles him. It’s the kind of laugh that makes everyone else laugh, too. But Jon doesn’t want to laugh. He decides to be irritated instead. 

“I think it’s good you have whiskey on you.” Sansa says. “That means you haven’t gone completely yankee on us.”

He snorts. “Believe it or not, Sansa, there are worse things that could happen to a person.” 

“You remember me?”

Jon looks up to find her eyes slightly widened in surprise. “Why wouldn’t I?”

She doesn’t say anything to that, just looks away. He thinks she might be trying not to smile.

Her injured hand is slender and soft. Her nails are lavender. He warns her, “This is gonna sting a little, but we’ve gotta get this clean or it’ll get infected.”

Sansa is back to being coy. “I’m a big girl. As long as you kiss it better afterwards, I’ll be fine. I promise.”

Jon feels his neck and face flush. He dismisses it as a byproduct of the heat, and pours the whiskey on her hand. She winces, but doesn’t do anything else. 

“I’m sorry about your mama.” She says, as he’s dabbing her hand clean with his spare shirt.

He’s gotten so many apologies today, but he doesn’t mind hers because she knows what it means to lose someone. He begins to tie the shirt around her hand. “I’m sorry about your father.”

Sansa flinches. It’s nearly imperceptible, but Jon still catches it. “It was a while ago.” 

His mother had told him Ned died in a car accident. It had been four years since she moved back. Jon was genuinely sorry to hear it. 

“Still. I liked him.” After securing the makeshift shirt bandage in place, he sets her hand aside. “And I know he’d be worried sick if he knew you were out at this time of night like this.”

Sansa narrows her eyes at him again, but this time it isn’t so coy. “Are you gonna tell him?”

Jon scowls. 

“I’m taking you home.” He stands up. “Your mother’s probably got half the police in town looking for you by now. Come on.”

He begins to make his way towards the car, but stops when he doesn’t hear her behind him. He turns to find her still sitting on that tombstone. She’s inspecting her nails. “I don’t recall asking you for a ride.”

Apparently, mentioning Ned and his desires for her wellbeing had been the wrong move.

“I don’t recall asking you if you needed a ride. I recall telling you.” Jon says coolly, even though his temper is bristling. “Let’s go. Now.”

He understands where she’s coming from, understands more than ever, but it seems from the beginning of this conversation, she was determined to push his buttons. And even though she’s annoying, he’s not leaving her out in the dark.

Sansa glowers, and stomps after him. “Living up north has really deprived you of all your manners.” 

“That’s a funny way of saying thank you for helping me.”

“Thank you for _forcing_ your company on me.”

“It’s my mother’s grave. You forced your company on _me_.” 

She falls into a stony silence at that, and he almost thinks he’s gotten her to shut up. But she keeps going.

“You’ve been gone a long time. I’m not six anymore, and I don’t live with my mama. I live at Kappa house.”

_Ole Miss. Of course._ Jon scoffs. 

“Is there something wrong with that?” She prompts. 

“Did I say something was wrong with that?” He shoots back.

“Your tone implied it.”

“I didn’t say anything, so there was no tone.”

“You scoffed. That’s an implication in itself.”

He grinds his jaw, praying for strength. 

But Sansa just keeps going, “My mother was a Kappa, too.”

Now, Jon can’t help himself. “‘Course she was.”

She grabs him by the inside of his arm with a surprisingly good grip. Not enough to stop him, but he stops anyway. She’s glaring at him full on, and he feels hot all over. Something is expanding in his chest. 

“If you have something to say, I suggest you spit it out before you choke on it.” She hisses. 

He thinks about the Ole Miss girls and their mothers, who always gave his mama nasty looks in the store all because of who his father was, and he thinks of their fancy cars and big mansions and he’s just—

He’s had enough. 

“It’s the same old redundant cycle. Sweet little upper crest Westeros debutantes get into Blackwater University and rush kappa or delta or iota _whatever._ Then they ultimately end up with an asshole that thinks draft beer should be a religion. Then they marry him, cuz there’s nothing else to do, and pop out two and a half kids that are equally as judgemental and smallminded as them. And then it repeats itself. Sound familiar?”

“My parents weren’t like that.” Sansa says hotly, fists balled up at her sides. Her lips are so tight they’re white. She’s angry. That makes him feel better.

“You don’t know that. None of us really know our parents.” Jon keeps walking. “Especially girls like you who wear rose colored glasses they don’t take off until they’re stuck in a loveless marriage of their own—”

_“Not my parents.”_

She shouts the words and they _quaver_ but somehow they still remain strong. Jon stops walking. When he turns to look at her, his eyes are wet and her lower lip is trembling and—

He feels like shit. 

Sansa takes a shaky breath and looks him dead in the eye. “Say whatever you want about me, about this town, but leave them out of it. I don’t have much left of my father. Just memories. Those are _mine._ If you liked him so much, you wouldn’t try to take them away from me just because of some grudge you have against our entire town.”

Jon wants to apologize, he wants to make it right. He wants her to stop looking at him like that. “I’m—”

She cuts him off. “No! I’m sorry. I am so _terribly_ sorry that we can’t measure up to your big city expectations. I’m sorry we can’t all break through the glass ceiling and be national merit scholars and write dissertations on old men who lived like—a million years ago—but that doesn’t mean you get to walk around and be cruel.”

She’s finished and she’s breathing hard. She looks like she feels a little better. It certainly alleviates the guilt on his shoulders. But he’s still stuck on her words. National Merit Scholar. His published dissertations. 

He asks, “Have you been reading about me?” 

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Sansa turns as scarlet as her hair and she throws her hands up, marching onto the pavement. She momentarily forgets she has on rollerskates and nearly falls face forward, but Jon reaches out, and steadies her by the waist with his hands.

She accepts the help because she has no other choice, holding onto his collar as she rights herself. Then she looks at him. In the skates, she’s just a little taller. Her pupils aren’t as wide as they were earlier. Her eyelashes are wet with tears.

His heart sinks. 

“I’m sorry.” Jon says quietly. “I was just mad. I don’t really believe that about your dad...I was out of line.”

She sniffles, fingers still curled around his collar. “You still don’t like my mama, though.”

He cringes inwardly. “If it helps, I’m sure plenty of other people find her lovely.”

“It’s okay.” She looks away. “I understand why.”

Robb. She’s thinking about him. Jon doesn’t know how he knows this, but he does. Does she remember the funeral? She must if she remembers him.

“What about me?” Sansa says, finally.

“What about you?”

She says it all unsure, voice a little tentative. “Do you like me?”

And he looks at her. Really looks at her. This face that looks so much like the one that belonged to the person he loved second most in the world. Same nose. Same eyes. Same sharp jaw. But there’s differences, too. She’s soft where Robb was brash. Quick witted where Robb tended to be slow on the uptake. Sad where Robb was hopeful. But Jon knows she has a reason to be sad. 

_She lost him, too._

“Yeah.” He whispers. “I like you just fine.”

Her gaze flickers to his mouth.

Jon feels like he can’t breathe. 

Sansa blushes, looking away. “It’s getting late. Can you take me home now?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Sure. Come on.”

Jon opens the door for her. She buckles her seatbelt. Then, they’re on the road. She takes off her skates and rubs the soles of her feet through her frilly socks. The car ride takes 10 minutes. They don’t talk.

They should talk. She looked at his mouth. If he doesn’t talk, things will be weird between them. But he’ll be gone soon—so why does he care? 

“How old are you, now?” 

It sounds weirder than he intends it to, creepier, but Sansa doesn’t seem like she minds. She leans back against the headrest. Kappa house is coming into view. 

“20.”

“Oh.” Jon clears his throat. Not nearly as young as he thought. “Well, my mom got us out of here when she was 32. She was a clerk at the county office. She barely graduated high school. You don’t have to be a national merit scholar to get out of here, you know. You just have to want it bad enough.” 

The car has come to a stop, now. She hasn’t gotten out yet. He doesn’t really want her to. 

“I don’t know what I want.” She says softly. 

“You have time.” He assures her. “You’ll know when you do.”

“How?”

Jon frowns. He’s never really thought about it like that before. 

“Well—haven’t you ever wanted something so bad you could taste it? Wished for something?”

And Sansa laughs at that. It’s a sad one. “What’s that saying? If wishes were fishes….we’d all be fisherman.”

She looks at them, then. He’s reminded of the look she gave him when she saw him earlier. Relieved and defeated.

“I gave you so many of my wishes, Jon.” 

He doesn’t understand. 

But Sansa is opening the door. She tosses over her shoulder. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Wait.” He calls after her, desperate and lost.

But she’s already jogging up the stairs, and gone. 

* * *

The next morning at breakfast, Jon learns that Rhaegar’s reign of terror is very much not over. 

They’re having a _garden_ party.

“This is stupid.” Jon snaps.

“It’s not stupid.” Rhaegar says evenly. “We’re honoring your mother.”

“With a bunch of people who did nothing but talk shit about her?”

His placid expression darkens at the profanity. “It’s not about the people. It’s about saving the Glass Gardens. It was very important to her.”

Jon knows that. The Lannisters were intent on taking that land and making it into a crop of business buildings, and his mother wasn’t having it. Whenever they talked, she’d inform him about all the new signatures she got on her petition, and how the fundraiser was coming along. She was so excited about it.

He should have asked her more about it.

“I understand your need to punish me,” Rhaegar flexes his hand. “But don’t take it out on her.”

It’s like a slap to the face. 

Jon pushes away from the table, furious. “Not everything is about you.”

He’s heading to the door, when Rhaegar calls after him, sounding very tired, “Wylla left clothes for you in the pool house.”

“I have clothes.” 

“None of them are suitable for a garden party.”

Jon continues storming away, and Rhaegar shouts, “For the love of god, do not come out of this house wearing black it is gonna be 82 degrees!”

He finds a pair of charcoal slacks and a shirt a few shades lighter. It is admittedly more formal than anything else he had brought with him, so he decides to let Rhaegar win another battle. He showers and gets dressed, ignoring the dread in the pit of his stomach, His mom would want him to go. That’s who mattered. Not everyone else who would be there. 

And everyone is there.

Everyone rich, anyway. The Tyrells, the Baratheons, the Arryn’s, and the Royce’s and so on. Even the Lannisters, as it would be extremely distasteful by southern etiquette not to show up to a dead woman’s fundraiser. Jon recognizes people he went to school with what felt like a million years ago. People who never even looked at him with anything but contempt, but smile at him now, and offer their condolences. He accepts them, but he does not smile back. He won’t forgive or forget. 

His father keeps an iron grip on him. Jon knows he’s enjoying this—strutting his eldest son around like a pageant girl. All Jon has to do is stand there, and Rhaegar tells them all about his degrees and his essays and his life in the city like _he_ had something to do with it. 

“So you’re a teacher?” Olenna Tyrell’s beady dark eyes are slightly narrow. She isn’t covert about her distaste. 

Jon grits his teeth. “Yep.”

“He’s a scholar, mother.” Alerie Tyrell corrects, fingering her pearls. “He said he does research, too. He only teaches sometimes.”

“Someone needs to shape young minds.” Tyrion Lannister tips his glass at him with a wink. “I think with Jon up at Yale, our children have a chance.”

“Bold of you to assume any of them are going to get into Yale.” Olenna Tyrell sneers.

Tyrion just laughs.

“You have such a wonderful pair of sons, Rhaegar.” Alerie beams at him. “Jon with his brains and Aegon with his brawn.”

“Speaking, of Aegon, it looks like he’s finally arrived.” Rhaegar flashes a smile, and beckons him over.

He says this as if he hasn’t been furiously texting Aegon in between mingling, demanding his location. Personally, Jon thought it was strange to invite his son by his first wife to his late mistresses’ garden fundraiser, but he wasn’t going to raise hell about it. Him and Aegon are practically strangers that have an intense dislike for each other flowing through their blood. 

“Yeah, let me know when that’s done with.” Jon says under his breath to Rhaegar, and excuses himself from all four people. He finds a quiet, undisturbed corner with tulips and decides to smoke. Better than drinking. He needs his wits about him. 

A girl makes her way towards him. She’s wearing a funny looking mint green dress and a hat to match. Most of the women here are wearing hats. It’s a southern staple. This girl doesn’t seem to be enjoying hers. She yanks it off her head and runs her fingers through her dark bob, and gestures to his cigarette. “You mind?”

She can’t be anymore than a high schooler, but Jon knows he’s the last one that should be judging. He hands it off to her. “Not at all.”

She accepts it, taking a drag. She holds it a minute before exhaling. She’s definitely been doing this awhile. 

“Stupid hat.” She throws her hat down onto the floor, stomping on it with a kitten heel. Jon can’t help but snicker. 

“Having fun?”

She snorts. “‘Bout as much fun as you.”

_Fair enough._ They keep passing the cigarette back and forth.

“My mama forced me to come.” The girl rolls her gray eyes, “She doesn’t even like these people. The ones throwing this party.”

He smirks. “I don’t like them much, either.”

“At least they give everyone something to talk about.” She shrugs. “Nothing ever happens in this town. I swear to God, the Targaryens are the closest thing we have to the Kardashians.” 

Jon chuckles at that.

“Arya!”

“Shit.” The girl beside him mutters, shoving the cigarette back into his hand. She hurriedly picks her hat back up and tries to rub grass stains out of it.

The source of her panic is a flurry of pink making its way towards them. _Gracefully,_ of course. She teeters effortlessly in her heels and her face is framed by coppery pin curls. She’s wearing a floppy, pink sun hat with flowers. 

Jon _knows_ her. 

“Mama has been looking for you everywhere! What are you doing with—”

“Sansa.” He blurts dumbly, _rudely,_ like he’s incapable of waiting for her to finish her sentence. 

“Jon?” She stops short. Her cheeks go as pink as her dress. Her hand flutters to the gold chain on her neck. 

He stamps out the cigarette hurriedly. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” 

He should have. The Starks are as rich as anyone else here. Of course they’d be here. 

“You’re Jon?” The girl—Arya, so much older than he last saw her, says in shock. “Jon Snow?”

He doesn’t answer, uncomfortable. 

Arya blanches. “Listen, all that stuff I said about your family—”

“What did you do?” Sansa interjects, horrified.

“Nothing.” Jon assures her. “She was just joking.”

“I’m sure it was hilarious.” She glares at Arya, and snatches up her hand. “Come on.”

“I’m mingling!” Arya rears back out of her grasp. “Isn’t that what y’all wanted me to do?”

“Mama said _mingling_ not _pestering.”_

“She’s not pestering me.” Jon says immediately. 

Now, Sansa glares at him. “Your capacity for patience must have grown prodigiously since we last conversed.”

He’s trying not to laugh, because honestly, he has a PhD and even he doesn’t use the word _prodigiously_ in everyday conversation, but it’s also really cute, and so is the way she’s scowling at his failure to hide his amusement.

“There you are, baby. I’ve been looking for you.”

Every last drop of mirth in his body circles the metaphorical drain.

Aegon is looping an arm around Sansa’s waist, pressing a kiss to the apple of her cheek. At the sight of Jon, his lilac eyes narrow, but other than that, he ignores him completely, as he always has. Which is fine. 

What is not fine is the way Sansa leans into his embrace like she’s his missing puzzle piece. 

“I’m supposed to be keeping a tight leash on this one.” She gestures to Arya, who scowls. 

“Well, you can shove that leash right up your prissy little—”

_“Arya Lyarra Stark.”_

Now Catelyn Stark is storming over towards them, voice carrying in an obviously perfected whisper yell that only catches the attention necessary. Arya and Sansa both cringe at the same time. 

“What happened to your hat?” She demands. 

“It makes my head hot.” Arya complains. 

Catelyn is clearly about to rip into her more, but her gaze catches on Jon and her face shrivels up. It seems to ice over. Her eyes are so frosty he doesn’t even feel the heat anymore.

And he deserves it. 

“Mrs. Stark.” Aegon steps in smoothly, successfully diverting her attention with southern pleasantries. “You look stunning.”

Catelyn smiles at him, although it is clearly false she seems to thaw slightly. “That’s very kind of you, Aegon.”

“I saw the most stunning orchid, and it reminded me of your eyes.” Aegon tells her with a dazzling smile, “Will you allow me to show it to you?”

She isn’t stupid. She knows a diversionary tactic when she sees one. But it’s one that she allows. “I don’t see why not.” Aegon offers his arm out to her, and she takes it. “Come on, Arya. Let’s go see it.”

Arya groans, but trails behind her mother, shoulders slumped, like she knows better than to provoke her mother’s ire again.

Sansa moves to follow them, but Jon catches her by the elbow. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. All he can think about is the last time he saw Catelyn Stark, at Robb’s funeral, yelling that it was his fault, because he wouldn’t have been in that river if he wasn’t friends with Jon, while six year old Sansa stood with her dad, watching. He always thought she blamed him, too. 

Does she blame him too?

She covers her hand with his. Not to hold it, but to disentangle herself from him. She gives him that same, sad look he doesn’t understand but hates so much. “I’ll see you around, Jon.”

It’s not a yes.

But it’s not a no.

* * *

He doesn’t think he’s gonna see her around, and that bothers him more than it should. He tries to ignore it.

Jon spends the next morning at his mother’s house packing things up. He gets the entire kitchen and the living room done before the afternoon. He’s drenched with sweat, and desperately needs a shower. He heads back to his father’s house.

He doesn’t expect to see Sansa there. 

There’s a lot of people there, but she’s the only one he notices. She’s standing on the side of the pool, resting her knee on the pool chair. She’s only wearing her swimsuit—a green two piece that doesn’t cover much but the essentials. Her skin is pale and soft, dotted with the occasional freckle and he’s so focused on the fact that he’s seeing so much of it, he doesn’t notice that she’s with Aegon. 

He’s sitting on the pool chair as she rubs sunscreen into his shoulders and his face. His hands rest on her ass like he owns it, running up and down her legs and his face is in the slope of her shoulder and—

Jon feels like he’s gonna be sick. He slams the door to the pool house behind him a little harder than necessary. 

He showers and changes. He intended on getting some rest, but Aegon’s guests are making it difficult, which he is 100% sure is the goal of the get together in the first place. Jon decides to head back into the main house for something to eat. In front of the glass sliding door, he glances at the pool chair. Sansa isn’t there anymore.

He happens upon her in the kitchen, dumping tortilla chips onto a large plate. Jon catches her attention by clicking his zippo.

Sansa drops the bag of chips, startling. At the sight of him, she breathes a sigh of relief. “Goodness, you scared me.”

_Goodness._ Even her lack of profanity irritates him at the moment. He bypasses her to get to the kitchen table, and lights a cigarette.

She purses her lips disapprovingly. “It’s not polite to smoke in the house.”

Jon inhales and exhales extra long. “Does it offend you?”

“If I said yes, would you stop?”

“I’d consider it.” 

Sansa walks around the island to stand in front of him. She takes the cigarette from him. He assumes she’s gonna put it out, but instead she presses it to her lips. She doesn’t cough once when she releases the smoke. 

Then she leans forward close, so close Jon’s breath hitches. He can smell her—lavender and chlorine and now smoke, _his_ smoke.

She reaches up, and her stomach brushes his shoulder as she pushes up the window to let some air in. 

Sansa withdraws, handing him back his cigarette. “If you’re gonna be belligerent, at least open a window, darlin’.”

_Darlin’._ She coats the word in her honeyed voice, making it sound like something it isn’t. Jon ignores it. “You and Aegon, huh?”

She takes out a spoon and begins to scoop homemade bean dip out of a glass dish. “Do they read minds up north, Jon? Am I supposed to know what you’re trying to say without you actually saying it?”

He continues casually. “You guys must be pretty serious if he’s already training you to be his housewife.”

Sansa scowls. “Making a snack for my boyfriend is far from being ensnared by the shackles of the patriarchy.” 

“I thought you Ole Miss girls were big fans of the patriarchy. You’re telling me you didn’t get the recipe for that bean dip from your little kappa handbook?”

And for the second time in three days, Jon watches her lose her temper. 

“You have quite the obsession with the women of this town.” She’s in his face, now. “Why? Did some Westerosi girl break your heart? Didn’t give you the time of day? Is that why you didn’t come back? You couldn’t stand the thought of being rejected again?” She laughs meanly. “That’s probably it. And now you prefer city girls, right? ‘Cuz you don’t like putting in work. ‘Cuz you _run_ when things get tough—”

Jon stands up so they’re eye to eye. Anger is simmering hot in his blood and he’s never been so angry at someone in his _life_ but he’s also registering the way her mouth parts and her throat moving as she swallows and her cheeks coloring.

“I’ve got no problem putting in work, sweetheart.” He says lowly. “National merit scholar, remember?”

She licks her lips, and something stirs in his gut.

“Almost done?” Aegon calls from the living room, as the sliding glass door opens.

“Almost.” Sansa calls back, voice even. But she backtracks over to the island just seconds before Aegon enters the room. He wraps an arm around her neck, but it’s Jon he addresses.

  
  


His tone is mocking, as his nose runs against the slope of Sansa’s shoulder. “Hope we’re not being too noisy, professor.”

It’s the first bit of conversation they’ve exchanged since he’s arrived, and anger burns hot in Jon’s chest, even though he couldn’t care less about the remark. He’s never wanted to _punch_ his brother before. He’s so taken aback by it, he says nothing. 

“You forgot this out there.” Aegon murmurs in Sansa’s ear. He produces the gold chain she wore to the garden party yesterday and fixes the clasp around her neck. She forces a smile.

“Wouldn’t want you to lose it.” He smooths it over her neck. “You know I love how it looks on you.”

Jon is clenching his jaw so hard his teeth might crack.

“Do me a favor and be quick about this, baby. Guys are starving. Bring a couple more beers while you’re at it.” Aegon pats her on the ass.

“Of course.” Sansa kisses him on the cheek, but then he pulls her back, and he kisses her on the mouth.

Jon leaves.

* * *

A few days later, he leaves his mother’s house in a foul, hopeless sort of mood after talking to Joy Hill about selling it. He needs a drink. He’s thinking about making himself one when he hears a muffled yawn from the living room. 

Rhaegar is at work. Aegon’s car hadn’t been in the driveway. Today is Wylla’s only day off. He decides to investigate the noise.

Sansa is curling up on the couch, feet underneath her. But at the sight of him, she immediately sits up straight backed with her hands in her lap.

“I don’t think Aegon is here.” He doesn’t look her in the eye. He doesn’t ask her why she has a key.

“I know. He’s at practice.” She says quickly. “But Kappa house is under repair so he told me I could stay with y’all until it gets fixed.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t know how to feel about this, even if it is reasonable. Her mother’s house is pretty far from campus.

“Your daddy doesn’t mind.” She adds.

Jon doesn’t doubt it. “He’s feeling very charitable lately.”

Sansa bites her lip, looking up at him. “Do you mind?”

There are a lot of things he can think of that he minds.

“No.” He clears his throat. “Knock yourself out.”

He enters the kitchen. Unexpectedly, she follows him. Jon tries to act like he thinks nothing of it, but really, his mind is racing and so is his heart. He remembers what almost happened the last time they were in this kitchen.

“Look—is there any chance we can call a truce?” She perches on a stool. “I don’t like fighting with you.”

The fighting itself isn’t the problem. It’s what always comes after the fighting—the accidental intimacy. The less fights they had, the better. He resolves this with himself, looking her in the eye. “Alright.”

She holds her hand out. “Friends?”

Jon swallows. 

Then he shakes her hand. “Friends.”

The smile she gives him is enough to make him forget about the shit day he’s had. It’s a genuine one. Not careful, or coy. But real. Limited edition.

“As your friend, I feel obligated to tell you if you start drinking that, you’re gonna be two sheets to the wind in as little as an hour.”

Jon takes out a glass, undeterred. “That’s the mission.”

Sansa takes his glass from his hand, rather than the decanter. He doesn’t understand why, not even after she fills it half full with iced tea. Then, she takes the whiskey from him to top it off. 

“There you go.” She hands it to him.

He takes it. “What is this?”

“It’s gonna keep you from blacking out. It dilutes the liquor but leaves just enough for a nice buzz. My mama used to make it for my daddy after a long day.”

Jon takes a tentative sip. It doesn’t taste nearly as strong, but it’s easier to drink. “Thanks.”

Sansa’s face softens, then. “Did you have a bad day?”

He drinks a little more. “Something like that.”

“What happened?”

He hesitates, and she prods him. “Come on. Friends tell each other things. You do know that?”

Jon knows that for a fact. He has two best friends—his coworker Sam, and of course Dacey, who he lived with during his undergrad years at Boston. But they wouldn’t understand. No one outside of Westeros could understand what happened on the inside of it.

“I’m gonna be here longer than anticipated. I can’t sell my mom’s place just yet.” He says finally. 

Her eyebrows raise. “You’re staying?”

“Just until I fix it all up. I have to find a contractor.”

“Is the house that bad?

Jon sighs, rubbing at his temples. “No one is gonna buy a house with the plumbing problems, no AC, and a sagging foundation. It’s all gotta be fixed.”

“My uncle could help.” Sansa offers.

“The one with the wine dispensary?” His brow creases in confusion.

She laughs, and it’s a pretty, tinkling sound. “No. The one that’s a contractor. He’s pretty good. I could give you his number, if you want.”

“You’d do that?”

“Why not? Friends help each other.”

Jon really can’t figure out why, but he’s really starting to hate that word coming out of her mouth.

Sansa takes a post-it pad Wylla uses for groceries off the fridge, and a pen that doubles as a fridge magnet. She scribbles down six digits, and hands it to him with a smile. “Now you can’t say an Ole miss girl has never shown you kindness.”

He laughs, despite himself. “If it all works out with your uncle, I’ll even start calling you guys angels.”

“Not all Ole Miss girls.” She brushes past him, throwing her words over her shoulder. “Just me.”

He looks at her in her white baby doll dress, with a pink bow tying her hair back. His chest aches something fierce. 

“Yeah.” He mutters when she’s gone. “Just you.”

* * *

Having Sansa in the house is different.

She’s like a comforting, ruffling breeze. Every morning, she comes into the kitchen and stifles a yawn and greets anyone up—usually just him. She pours an unnecessary amount of cream and sugar into her coffee from a fresh pot Wylla makes before starting to clean.

“You put so much creamer in that you might as well drink straight from the bottle.” He told her one morning. 

“I’ve tried that once.” She answered, wrinkling her nose as if she could still remember the taste. 

The reason she’s always up so early is because she has morning classes. It’s another thing he finds strange about her. 

“Why are you taking classes during the summer? Are you a psychopath?” He asked her another day, watching her slather strawberry cream cheese on a bagel. Both sides.

“Keeping my brain big and beautiful.” Sansa sucks some cream cheese off her finger. “Us country folk like to read too.”

These moments are the only time Jon gets to see her without Aegon, so he likes these moments a lot. More than he should. Every time he tries to pull back, she says good morning to him and he finds himself looking for things to ask her just so he can hear more of her voice.

On Friday, the sixth day of their new living arrangement, Sansa shuffles into the kitchen sleepily. “Morning.”

Jon’s mouth drops open.

Sansa pours herself a cup of coffee complete with her lake of creamer and stirs. When he continues not to speak, she looks up, taking a sip. “No witty remark today?”

He tries to think of something to say, but he can’t. All he can see is her in front of him. He blurts, “You’re wearing my shirt.”

Sansa looks down at herself curiously. “What?”

The black one he tied up her hand with that night in the cemetery. The reason he chose it was because it was old, and had two holes in the neck. That’s how he recognizes it hanging off her back now. It nearly swallows her. 

“Sorry. I thought it was Aegon’s.” She’s flushing bright pink now. “I’ll go change and I can wash it—”

“No. No. It’s fine.” Jon insists, clearing his throat. “I gave it to you, anyway.”

“As a bandaid, not to wear.” She still looks very embarrassed. 

“No harm done.” He drinks his coffee just to give him something to do, and scalds his tongue. “Aegon didn’t see.”

Then, Sansa’s embarrassment fades. “I highly doubt he’d notice.”

She averts her eyes and says it lightly, but he catches the undercurrent of bitterness. He loathes it. 

“I don’t see how.”

She shrugs. “He doesn’t even notice when I get a new dress. I doubt he’d notice me wearing another guy’s shirt.”

“You’re impossible not to notice.” Jon says, just barely loud enough for her to hear.

He’s focusing on the cabinet behind her, rather than her reaction. He’s scared at what he’ll find. But he notices that out of his peripheral vision, she’s coming closer. So close he can smell her. So close he has no choice but to look at her.

Her blue eyes are soft and warm and _tender._ Her hand comes up to cup his cheek. “I knew there was a reason.” 

“A reason for what?” He’s breathing again. He hadn’t even realized he stopped. 

Her eyes darken with an emotion he can’t describe. “Why I gave you so many of my wishes.”

And then she’s gone, slipping through his fingers like water. She doesn’t look at him again. She leaves without her coffee.

And he misses her already. 

* * *

Later that night, as Jon is trying to sleep, he hears a commotion. Splashing in the water. Probably Aegon trying to piss him off.

He’s had enough.

Jon exits the poolhouse, intent on giving him a piece of his mind, but he’s stopped short by the sight in front of him. He’s standing in the pool. Sansa is in his arms, unconscious. 

“What the hell are you doing?” He rushes forward.

Aegon looks up. His face is blanched and his eyes are red and unfocused. “She won’t wake up.”

His heart stammers. “What?”

Aegon just looks at her helplessly. 

Jon jumps into the water, clothes and all, wading towards them. She doesn’t even stir at the movement. Panic is rising in his throat. 

“What did she take?” He demands. 

“Oxy. I think.”

“You _think_?”

“I saw her drink something, too.”

Jon takes her into her arms, letting the water cover more of her body. It’s ice cold, a shock against his own skin, but Sansa isn’t moving. He curses. 

“It’s not my fault.” Aegon insists. “She knows not to drink stuff I don’t give her.”

“Shut up.” He has never hated anyone like he hates his half brother at that moment. “Go call for help! She needs help.”

But Aegon doesn’t move. He just stands there, kind of shocked, and Jon isn’t leaving her alone with him. He lets the water reach her neck, and hesitates. He blinks and sees Robb floating in that river. He feels like he’s gonna be sick. Jon takes her body underneath water for all of three seconds, and breaks the surface again. 

Sansa splutters in his arms, coughing and thrashing, but he holds her close to him, relieved. Her entire body shakes.

“You’re okay.” Jon soothes her. “You’re alright, angel.”

She continues to cough, but relaxes against him, exhausted. He helps her out of the pool, wrapping a towel he gets from inside around her. Aegon is holding her.

“How do you feel?” Jon asks her.

She doesn’t even look at him, just stares ahead blankly, head against Aegon’s shoulder. 

“She’s tired.” Aegon says. “I’ll take her to bed.”

Jon glares at him. “Can you be trusted to do that?”

For a second, Aegon almost looks hurt, but he turns away from him, and directs his words to Sansa. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

He ends up carrying her. Sansa wraps her arms around his shoulders, and lets him. She does not look at Jon as she goes inside. Worry eats away at him, as he follows them all the way to the foot of the stairs, and watches them go. 

Aegon comes back down later on. Jon wastes no time shoving him up against a wall. 

“Have you ever considered caring about anyone other than yourself?” He hisses.

Aegon pushes him away. He’s taller. Broader. It’s easy for him. But Jon doesn’t care. Quarter back or not, he wants to kill him.

“I love her!” His voice rises.

“Act like it!” Jon shouts back.

“Who do you think you are? I don’t have to prove myself to you!”

“Then prove yourself to her!” 

“What is going on here?”

Rhaegar is standing in the doorway; looking rumpled and confused at the commotion. He looks between them, seeming bemused at the fact that they’re actually interacting.

“Ask him.” Jon snaps, and he storms back outside, to the pool house.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

  
  


* * *

Jon gets back from meeting with Benjen Stark, who has agreed to fix his mother’s house up, the next day. A new time frame is echoing in his head. Till the end of August. That isn’t so far away, just a month. At least now, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.

He’s barely back for five minutes when there’s a knock at his door. Nobody ever knocks except Wylla, so he feels comfortable answering. 

It’s not Wylla. 

Sansa is smiling that pretty pageant smile at him, looking a great deal better than she had last night. Her skin has color again. Her eyes have life again. She’s carrying a tupperware box.

“Good afternoon.” She chirps.

“You’re okay.” There’s a large lump clogging his throat and it’s steadily dissolving. He’s so relieved his shoulders sag.

“I’m fine.” Her smile flickers, returning a bit dimmer. “Can I come in?”

He nods. 

“I made you these.” Sansa thrusts the tupperware into his hand. 

It’s full of sugar cookies. They’re all perfectly round and plump like biscuits. Jon stares at them blankly, “Why?”

“To say thank you, silly.” She says. “For helping me last night.

Jon steps forward, then. The movement is so sudden he watches her eyebrows raise a little, but he doesn’t care. He grasps her chin in his hands firmly, but gently. 

“I don’t need a thank you. Just don’t do it again.”

Sansa looks down. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need that, either.” He whispers.

She leans into his touch, eyes meeting his. Her eyes are tender and soft again. Jon feels like his entire body is cracked open and she can see every horrible thing he has inside of him. He doesn’t want her to. 

“What happened?” He asks. “Did someone slip something in your drink? Did Aegon—”

Sansa pulls away, then. Her entire face seems to just shut down, as she looks away. “I took it by myself.”

“Why?”

“You wouldn’t get it.”

“Make me get it.” Jon demands, helpless and angry. 

“I can’t!” She shouts. “I just _can’t!_ It feels like everything bad always happens to me and my family and nothing good! So sometimes, I wanna feel good! I wanna stop feeling _lost._ I wanna stop missing people I can’t bring back. I wanna be _free_.”

Her voice is choked and her lower lip is trembling and he hates that she’s right. He hates that he doesn’t get it. 

“I’m always supposed to do exactly what I have to. Nothing more. Nothing less. I’m always supposed to be in control—I don’t wanna be in control anymore.”

Silence envelops them, thick and abrupt. He doesn’t know what to say, and he doesn’t know how to say it.

“I told you that you wouldn’t get it.” Sansa says flatly. 

She leaves.

The next time he sees her is that night, holding Aegon’s hand. They’re dressed, and heading downstairs. 

“Where are you going?” Jon calls out.

Aegon replies coldly, “None of your business.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.” He snaps, and then he looks at Sansa. “Don’t tell me you’re going out again. After what just happened?”

“I’ll be fine.” She isn’t meeting his eyes.

“You probably thought you were gonna be fine last time.” He argues. “You’re not going. Neither of you. 

Aegon surges forward, snarling. “ _Please_ give me an excuse to fucking deck you.”

Jon doesn’t stand down. In fact, he would have shoved him if not for Sansa coming between them. She’s pushing him towards the door. 

“Egg.” She says softly. “Let’s just go. Come on.”

Aegon shakes his head, fists tight, but he exits the front door. Sansa moves to follow him, and Jon calls her name.

“Stop!” It’s loud and it’s _hurting_ and she’s giving him that look he hates so much. “You don’t get to do this. It’s too late. Just stop it—please.”

_It’s too late._ Too late for what?

“What do you want from me?” He asks her, bemused and begging and _aching._

“I want…” She hesitates, eyes shining with tears. “I’ve always wanted too much.”

She slams the door.

* * *

Over the next week, Sansa keeps partying with Aegon.

Jon watches them discreetly. 

He stays up until he’s sure they got in. He does this by pretending he’s swimming, so he can see inside of the house. They come home just before dawn every night. He doesn’t get any sleep.

But Sansa is safe, so it’s worth it. 

As far as he notices, she doesn’t have any other bad reactions. She doesn’t have coffee with him in the mornings anymore. She doesn’t come out of Aegon’s room much. She’s avoiding him. She’s angry at him. Jon wishes he could understand why. 

One Saturday, it’s two am. He starts getting ready for his swim like he always does. Except when he walks out, he isn’t alone.

Sansa is in the pool fully clothed. Her pink dress floats around her like some unearthly flower. She’s coming up for air just as he comes to a stop at the edge of the pool. 

“Sorry. I was hot.” She blushes. “I’ll leave.”

“You don’t have to.” Jon assures her quickly. “You can stay. I don’t mind.”

_Please stay._ It’s the first time she’s talked to him in days. He feels like a dehydrated dog panting for water, desperate and searching. _Please._

She doesn’t leave. It’s a start. She asks. “Since when do you swim at night?”

“Aegon is using it during the day most of the time.” The excuse springs readily from his mouth. “And it helps me think.”

“You’ve been doing it a lot. What are you thinking about so hard?”

“Lots of things.”

He gets in the pool. Sansa wades through the water so that she’s close to him. If she reached out her arm, he would feel her fingers touch him. 

  
Her eyes narrow at him. “I know you’ve been waiting up for me this past week. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

He doesn’t bother to deny it. “Someone’s gotta look after you.”

“ _I’m_ looking after me. Aegon is looking after me.”

“Really? Where is he now?”

At once, her irritation fades. She averts her eyes. “He just drank a little too much. That’s all.”

Jon bites his tongue so hard he’s surprised he doesn’t taste blood.

“What?”

He shakes his head.

“Don’t do that.”

“ _You_ don’t do that.” He throws back, jaw clenched. “Don’t make me say it when you know it’s gonna piss you off and you’re just gonna walk away. Don’t make me make you run.”

Sansa comes even closer. He can see the drops of water on her eyelashes and rolling down her skin, she’s so close. “I won’t walk away.” She whispers. “I promise.”

Jon thinks about holding her close to him to make sure she doesn’t renege. 

“Why do you stay with him?”

She sighs, long and tired. It’s the sigh of someone older than 20 years old.

“He wasn’t always like this, Jon. He used to be very good to me.” 

“But he isn’t now.” Jon persists. “So why are you still here?”

“Because I love him.” She says. “He’s the first boy I loved. I’ll always love him. He’s a part of me.”

It hurts harder than he expects it to, hearing those words. “Are you in love with him?”

Sansa says nothing. The hope caged in his heart is a dangerous, ugly thing and keeping it trapped hurts.

“I’m gonna marry him one day.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Do you remember our conversation the first night you were back? About Westerosi girls and their husbands?” Her voice is hard but her face betrays it entirely because it’s so soft. So unsure and reluctant. 

He knows what he said. He hates himself for saying it. “It doesn’t have to be that way for you.”

His nose is filled with the scent of her—lavender and chlorine. He can see the mark on her chin he likes so much. A drop of water makes its way down the slope of her aristocratic nose. He can feel her breath on his cheek. Just cinnamon. No liquor. 

“Why do you care so much?” She asks. 

Jon can’t help himself—he touches her, running a thumb down her curve of her jaw. He could cop out. He could say I don’t know. He could walk away now. 

Instead, he says, “Because I care about you.”

“Why?” 

He doesn’t answer. 

Still, she presses. “Because I’m Robb’s little sister?”

“You’re more than that.” He says, voice barely audible. “So much more than that.

His thumb brushes over her bottom lip.

Sansa takes it into her mouth, sucking. Her eyes never leave his own. Jon feels like he’s imploding. Collapsing. Her tongue is soft and warm and her deliberate moan makes his skin vibrate.

He isn’t sure who moves first. 

But suddenly, she’s crushed up against him and she fits perfectly. The kiss is hungry; and snapping, and desperate. She tastes like cinnamon and chlorine and something distinctly tart that leaves him wanting more.

Her necklace is cold against him. Aegon’s necklace. Jon yanks at it until the clasp breaks and she gasps into his mouth, clinging to him tighter. Just like that, any trace of Aegon is gone. He won’t ruin this for him.

“This too.” She begs him, pulling at her dress. “Please—”

He’s more careful with the dress. He pulls the sleeves down her shoulders and her arms and she kicks it off clumsily in the water. She’s not wearing a bra. 

Her fingers tangle in his hair as he moves from her mouth to her neck and to her breasts. Everything about her body is soft and plush and he wants to worship it. He wants to take his time touching every part. 

“I wanna do it right.” Jon tells her. “Not here.”

Not in the pool where anyone could see. Only he would see her tonight. Only he would have her. 

She looks at him, mouth bruised and eyes heavy lidded and she nods. 

“Take me to bed.”

* * *

They don’t turn on the lights. They don’t dry off. Jon carries her to bed, hovering over her. She seems so tiny. Delicate. Her body is cold and he does his best to warm it up with his mouth. Her heart is beating fast underneath his hand as he cups her left breast, taking it into his mouth. She moans.

He starts rolling her underwear down her hips slowly, so that Sansa can tell him to stop anytime she wants. But she doesn’t. Her hips rock up against him, more desperate now than she had been before.

“Please?” She pleads. 

Jon yanks the underwear down the rest of the way. The inside of her thighs are lined with thin, pink stretch marks. He kisses them, and Sansa shudders. But he understands it’s the good kind when the more he does it, the more she opens her legs, until his head is completely between her thighs. Until he’s kissing her where she needs him most. Her back arches off the bed, and he pins her back down. He spreads her open with his tongue and he’s certain _this_ is heaven, her desperate, incomprehensible sighs as he slips a finger inside of her, nudging and curling over and over again.

He knows exactly when she comes. He feels her thighs tighten around his head and a fresh surge of slick on his tongue as he sucks. Her legs shake. He draws it out as long as possible, and kisses his way up her stomach, to her mouth. She makes a fluttering, gasping sound in his mouth he wants to hear on repeat for the rest of her life.

“There are condoms in the nightstand.” Sansa says against his mouth. 

Jon doesn’t think about how she knows this. He doesn’t think about Aegon doing to her what he’s doing to her, in the same bed. She’s his tonight. He won’t take that away from him. He grabs a condom, ripping the foil packet open. He takes his time rolling it on. Again, he gives her time to tell him to stop.

She doesn’t. 

Sansa shifts from her back to her stomach. Jon hesitates. 

“Is this...how you want it?”

“I want it however you want it.” She says. When she speaks again, she sounds unsure. “You don’t like it like this?”

He places his hands on her hips and turns her so she’s facing him again. “I wanna see you.”

Her hand reaches up to cup his face. He can see her smiling a little in the dark. “Okay.”

Jon settles between her legs. Sansa’s hands find his lower back, her chin on his shoulder. 

“Jon?”

He’s so close, just _there._ He’s panting in her ear. “Yeah?”

Her mouth touches his ear. “I want it rough.”

He doesn’t trust himself to talk, so he nods. 

He leans into her, slow and careful, and her body yields to him, letting him in. She’s warm. So warm he finds it difficult to think. Sansa moans. Jon watches her eyes flutter shut and feels her hold him close. He sinks into the cradle of her hips with a heavy breath. Her body trembles.

She says, “More.”

He leans back, and leans forward, pulling her hips up to meet him. She makes a sound like she’s choking. He immediately stops. 

“No. I liked that.” She tells him. “Do it again.”

He does it again, and she makes that same, choked and fluttery sound. Then he does it again, but harder. She moans so loud it surprises him. It thrills him. So he does it again and again. 

Moving with her is easy. Moving inside of her is easy. It’s like they fit together. She talks to him, whispering in his ear the entire time, and it drives him crazy. She’s not saying anything particularly filthy, she’s just telling him how good it feels, how good _he_ feels, and how she wants more, and how she wants it harder. So he gives it to her. He gives it all to her. 

He has her back arched off the bed, and it’s that final slam that pushes her over the edge. He watches it all happen. He watches her eyes roll back and her mouth open and he feels her nails biting into his shoulder. She breaks the skin. He comes bleeding, panting, and he doesn't care because the pleasure is so blinding that his vision whitens.

Sansa does, though. Afterward, she pouts at his shoulder, pressing a bandaid over it. Then she kisses him. 

“That’s how you do first aid,” she tells him. “Never forget the kisses.”

Jon smiles at her. “I’ll remember that next time.”

They lay beside each other. He tries to feel guilty, but he doesn’t. Instead, he feels sad, because it can never happen again. 

“What did you mean the night we met?” He asks her, with his hand running through her hair. 

“About?” Sansa prompts.

“When you said you gave me your wishes.”

She doesn’t say anything. Jon thinks she might ignore the question altogether, but she doesn’t. 

“One day, I’ll tell you.” She says at last.

_One day._ He only had so many days left. “Does that mean never?”

“It means maybe.” She tells him truthfully, but then she looks back at him. “But not tonight.”

Sansa kisses him again, and he forgets the question altogether. Her lips are soft, and searching, as she straddles his hips. 

“Just one more time, before I go.” She wraps her arms around his neck.

“Alright.” He says quietly, already missing her. “Just one more time.


	2. II

When Sansa was little, her daddy used to call her cherry.

Her nana used to make this pie full of them, and Sansa couldn’t get enough. Any chance she’d get, she was eating a slice of cherry pie and vanilla ice cream. One day, she went to the dentist and found out she had a cavity. Her mama told her if she kept eating so many cherry pies, all of her teeth were gonna fall out and she’d become one. Her daddy thought it was funny, and it stuck. He used to pick her up from school saying, _how was your day, cherry girl?_ And she used to laugh until her stomach hurt. Growing up, she rather liked the analogy. Cherries were red, like her hair. They were shiny, like her pageant tiaras. And they were sweet—just like everyone told her she was. 

Now, she sees cherries in a different light.

They’re fragile, and bruise easily. They’re messy—one bite causes scarlet juice to stain your teeth. And of course, they’re poisonous.

Not the cherry itself. Not the sweet, tender skin, but the seed inside. The pit. A fitting name for a seed with such macabre intent. Cherry seeds have cyanide in them. If you ate enough, they’d kill you. They look harmless enough, but once ingested, once _trusted,_ they’re toxic. Dangerous.

  
  


Sansa isn’t a little kid, anymore. Her daddy is dead. Nobody has called her cherry in years—

But she has a lot more in common with cherries than she thought.

* * *

Sansa has known the boy she’s gonna marry her entire life. 

They had the same teachers, and went to the same holiday parties, and had the same friends. Their mamas were in the same graduating high school class. They played in the same sandbox.

Then they grew up.

She turned 14, and he asked her out on her first date. He became the first boy to hold her hand. He gave her the first kiss she ever had. He was the first boy to tell her that he loved her. He was the first boy to make love to her. Aegon Targaryen was always there, and even though he is who she gave all her firsts to—he isn’t the one she _saw_ first. 

No.

That was Jon.

* * *

It wasn’t love at first sight. 

Even though she saw him first, she saw him more as an extension of Robb than anyone else. A darker, leaner shadow. She didn’t remember much about him, truthfully. Not until after. Not until Robb was gone.

He was with her one minute, then he was gone. She remembered her daddy telling her he was in heaven, and she remembered the funeral, because her dress was black and scratchy and Arya was only 2 years old and being terribly fussy. 

And her mama was yelling at Jon.

She was trying to, but Jon’s mama was yelling back. They both looked furious. It was just a bunch of shouted words Sansa couldn’t really understand. Her ears were ringing and her daddy was rubbing her shoulder.

But all she could see was Jon. And for the first time, she really saw him. Not as Robb’s shadow, but his own person. His hair was very curly and his eyes were puffy like he had been crying. Sansa didn’t know boys cried. 

He looked at her, and his jaw tightened. She should have been embarrassed to be caught staring, but she couldn’t look away. They stayed like that for a while, before Lyanna was tugging on his elbow and pulling him away. She watched his retreating back. He looked over his shoulder at her. 

That was the last time she saw Jon Snow for 12 years. Two days later, everyone was saying his mama drove the both of them out of town and didn’t look back.

* * *

Sansa didn’t think about Jon Snow again until her daddy died. 

She was 12. He was hit by Ilyn Payne’s car, Westeros’ resident drunk. He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Her mama didn’t leave bed for days. Arya kept breaking her toys because she was so angry. 

And Sansa just cried.

She cried and cried because she could still feel Robb’s death in her heart like a tender bruise. She cried because now she didn’t have a daddy either. She cried because she couldn’t understand why bad things had to keep happening to her family. She even asked her Uncle Brynden.

“It’s this town, cherry girl.” He told her, holding her close. “It always takes the good ones too soon.”

“It’s not fair.” She sobbed into his shoulder.

“No. But it’s Westeros. And it’s home.”

And in that moment, Sansa thought, I don’t want this to be home anymore.

It never occurred to her that people lived outside of Westeros. She knew it, of course, but it always seemed to be an abstract theory, because she never heard of anyone leaving town before. 

“That’s because they don’t.” Uncle Benjen said grimly, when she asked him. “The only door that leads out of Westeros is six feet under, cherry girl.”

“Miss Lyanna left.” Sansa pointed out.

“And now she’s back, so clearly, it didn’t work, now did it?”

She thinks of the first time she saw Lyanna Snow again. She was eight years old. She was riding back from Wolfswood with her friends. She saw Lyanna come out of a five and dime. Her face was flushed from the heat and mirth, and her long dark hair was piled on top of her head. She was laughing with the store owner, Howland Reed. She heard the bell on Sansa’s bike. As their eyes met, her smile sort of faded. But she waved. Sansa waved back to be polite. 

Then, Sansa thinks of the last time she saw Lyanna before that. At the funeral. 

“Jon didn’t, though.” She murmured to herself. “Her son didn’t come back.”

Still, Benjen heard her. He grimaced.

“No. Guess he didn’t.”

* * *

That was mostly everyone’s attitude about Jon Snow.

Everyone was always gossipping about Lyanna—what she wore, what she said to the foodland cashier, her years living up north, how she reacted to Rhaegar Targaryen’s name. But Jon remained an unbroached subject. Sansa thought it would be a bigger deal—Rhaegar Targaryen’s bastard son not coming home—but it wasn’t. Whenever she brought him up to her friends, no one even blinked. It was as if since he was out of their sight, he was out of their minds. Not hers, though.

She googled him one day, just out of curiosity. No instagram, no facebook, no twitter. But he had a linkedin, and an article published by the American Historical Review, and one single picture below the article in the about the author section. There he was. Scruffy, dark haired, solemn looking, but _there._ Real. This was what a person who made it out of Westeros looked like. It was possible. Jon Snow was the exception. 

He was _exceptional._

* * *

Jon never came back home for any holidays. Not thanksgiving, or christmas, or easter. Uncoincidentally, Lyanna wouldn’t be in town those couple of days. Obviously she was visiting him.

“He thinks he’s better than us.” Aegon slurred one christmas evening. His head was pillowed on her chest.

_No._ Sansa wanted to say. _He knows he is._

She still kept hope in her heart that one day he’d come back. And when he did, she’d find him and beg him to take her out of here. Show her how to leave this town and not get sucked back in. He probably wouldn’t remember her, but she’d mention Robb and he would take pity on her then. Sansa always hated pity, but she’d take his.

Year after year, like Rhaegar Targaryen, Sansa waited for Jon Snow to come home. She dreamed about it. She wished on anything she could find: bright stars and dandelions and birthday candles and water fountains. She lost track of all the wishes she gave him. Then she stopped believing in wishes altogether.

Because he never came.

* * *

8 years is a long time to give someone your wishes.

And it’s a lot of wishes.

* * *

It’s the last week of July. Jon Snow is supposed to be teaching her how to drive, but she’s riding him instead.

The air conditioning is being blasted, but sweat still causes her hair to stick to the back of her neck. Everywhere her mouth touches him, his neck, his jaw, his chest—tastes salty. His hands grip her waist so hard they bruise. She likes that. She likes it so much she moves his hand up to her throat. 

His brow draws down tight, creasing in puzzlement. His eyes are still heavy lidded with the satisfaction but his first concern is her. Always her. He strokes the column of her throat. “What do you want?”

_I want you to kill me,_ She thinks suddenly, dizzily, but she doesn’t say that. Instead, she rolls her hips and slants her mouth against his and makes him groan. His hand squeezes her throat, and she comes like that.

“That was a good lesson.” She says afterwards.

Jon snorts, pulling out of the empty supermarket parking lot. “You almost crashed us into a pole.”

Sansa smoothes the skirt of her dress down, buckling her seatbelt. “I thought I rode pretty well.”

He shakes his head. His neck is all flushed and she knows it isn’t from the heat. It’s so easy to make him flustered. “You’re gonna have to learn how to drive at some point, angel.”

Aegon calls her baby, and darlin’, and honey. But Jon just calls her angel. She likes that much better. Especially because he isn’t the type for flowery endearments.

“Aegon always drives me everywhere.” She says. “What’s the point?”

Jon clenches his jaw, and doesn’t say anything. It’s only a few minutes later when she realizes that she’s made him upset. Sometimes, without meaning to, she compares them. They probably get enough of that from Rhaegar. 

Sansa rests her head on his shoulder. “Let’s go get something sweet.”

“I don’t like sweets.”

“You like me.” 

“You can be sour when you wanna be.” But his voice is soft, and so is the look he gives her, so she doesn’t pull away. “I have to meet your uncle, anyway. Can’t make another detour.”

She tries not to pout at that. Pouting is childish. Instead, she asked him, “How’s the house doing?”

Jon shrugs. “He’s making better progress than he originally thought.”

“So he might be finished sooner?”

“It’s possible.”

The thought makes Sansa’s stomach twist. If he was finished, then he wouldn’t have any reason to stay here. And with his mama gone, there wasn’t even the smallest chance that he’d ever come back.

They spend the rest of their ride in silence. Jon pulls up to Kappa house. She doesn’t wanna say goodbye, but when she speaks, she makes it sound like she couldn’t care less. 

“Go on to your meeting. I’ll see you.” She opens the door. 

He caught her by the wrist. “When?”

A familiar feeling wrestles around in her stomach. Every time she saw him, she couldn’t help but feel like it was gonna be the very last. 

“It’s a small town, darlin’.” Sansa pulls away. “I’m not that hard to find.”

Jon doesn’t drive off until she’s all the way in the house. He never does. Inside, a bunch of her sisters are gathered in the living room, sucking on popsicles and drinking gin. 

“Sansa, is that you?” Myranda calls.

“Yeah, I’m home.” She answers, and jogs upstairs without another word. She isn’t in the mood to deflect their questions about her whereabouts today.

Sansa decides to run herself a bath. She strips off her clothes. Her body is sore in a nice sort of way that she wants to linger in. So sinking into the warm water is nice. The air conditioning is rustling her hair. She’s surrounded by bubbles. She stays until they begin to shrink in size, until her fingers prune. Someone knocks on the door after awhile. 

“I’m in here.” She calls out.

Aegon’s voice can be heard through the wood. “I know.”

Sansa sits up a little. “Come in.”

Aegon is all golden and shiny from football practice. He closes the door behind him and leans down to kiss her on the cheek. 

“You’re all sweaty.” She wrinkles her nose, but leans into him. 

His mouth brushes her ear. “I could get in with you.”

She shoves him back, and he laughs. 

“Look. I got you something.” He hands her a strawberry milkshake topped with whipped cream and a cherry.

Sansa takes it, a little surprised. “Thank you, baby.”

“No biggie.” Aegon drops down to sit beside her. “I know Jon doesn’t like sweet things, and I also know you get your cravings.”

He knew where she was, because she’s never lied to him. Sansa picks her cherry up and pops it in her mouth. He watches her. 

“Are you done?”

“Done with what?” She knows he can’t possibly be talking about her milkshake.

“Punishing me.”

“I’m not punishing you, Egg.”

He leans forward, chin on the bathtub. She can hear the words in his head as if he said them. _I don’t believe you._

Sansa can do nothing to assuage his worries without hurting him further, so she says nothing.

“Do you like him more than me?” His voice is sullen and childlike.

She leans forward to cup his cheek. “I love you.”

_But I love him too._

She doesn’t say her last thought. Aegon kisses her. It’s soft and perfect. Their foreheads touch.

“I know you do.” 

Sansa nods in agreement.

Aegon submerges his hand underneath the water, parting her thighs. She gasps, still sensitive from earlier. 

“You’re mine.” His breath fans hot on her neck. “Yeah?”

She nods again, head moving like a bobblehead as she brings his hand closer. He slips a finger inside of her, grinding his palm against the center of her.

“Yeah.” He says in encouragement. “That’s my girl.”

He keeps going. It’s hard not to compare him to Jon when he is all that is on her mind. Aegon doesn’t move with as much grace. His movements are clumsy and impatient, but they’re enough. She comes with a shudder, and his words filthy in her ear.

But she comes thinking of Jon.

* * *

Sansa has never lied to Aegon before.

He lies to her. He lies to her _often—_ about the booze, and about the girls, and about where he spends his friday nights after the football games—but she never lies to him, no matter how much she wants to. She loves him, well and true, but not enough to pretend to be something she’s not. And she’s not a liar.

She stayed with Jon until the early hours of the morning after that first time. It was as if she was in a haze, and had no control of her body or thoughts, because they were filled with him. But when she left, she was more clear headed than ever before.

“Where were you?” Aegon mumbled sleepily, after she changed out of her wet dress and slid into bed.

“Swimming.” She told him, and kissed his cheek. “Go back to sleep, baby.”

Aegon did as he was told, but not before kissing her neck. That afternoon, when she was washing her hands, she noticed a blooming purple bruise on her neck. Bite marks. 

Aegon hadn’t said a thing.

And he didn’t for the next three nights. Sansa was unsure of how to act around him, so out of guilt, she avoided him. How would they proceed after this? Would she have to say she was sorry? That she regretted it? She couldn’t. But she couldn’t lose Aegon either. Not when he was her future.

Her kappa sisters threw a party, and Aegon came. He kissed her like everything was normal, and then he got obscenely drunk. And when he was drunk, he was truthful.

“You smelled like him.” They were in her bed. She was trying to calm him down. To get him to sleep it off. But he was slurring, “The other night—you smelled like him. And then I saw your neck—I knew.”

Sansa tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She began, “Aegon—”

“It’s okay, baby. Shhhh.” His hand came up to caress the side of her face. “I know I can’t be mad.”

It was the first time he admitted to cheating, not that she didn’t know about it. She still flinched at hearing about it.

“And I’m not mad.” Aegon continued. “I’m happy. I’m so happy.”

“Why?” Sansa asked. 

“Before—It was always me wanting something of his, you know? His yankee life, his living mama. Daddy’s affection. But now, see—it’s the other way around. I’ve finally got something he wants.”

_Something._ Like she was his property. Like she belonged to him. It made her feel dirty and used up. It made her feel angry.

“I’m winning, baby.” Aegon grinned at her. “And it’s all thanks to you.”

Sansa didn’t say another word to him that night. Gendry drove them home. She dropped Aegon off in bed. She knocked on Jon’s door. Her blood was rushing in her ears. Her hands wouldn’t stop dancing along her thighs. 

He answered the door. He was deliciously rumpled from sleep. His brows flew up at the sight of her. 

“I thought you were avoiding me.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not you.”

Jon seemed to understand that. He seemed to understand almost everything about her. 

Sansa was breathless just looking at him. “Will you kiss me again?” 

She watched his jaw work as he bit the inside of her cheek. His hand closed around her wrist, warm and rough, as he brought her closer. 

He said, “What do you think?”

And he took her to bed.

* * *

Sansa isn’t doing anything wrong.

It’s not like they’re married, not yet. If Aegon could have his fun, then so could she. He had basically told her so. Aegon knows that once Jon left, it would be over, and Jon knows—

He knows a lot more than he lets on.

And he’s honest about it. That’s another way in which him and Aegon are both so different. He looks at her in public as he looks at her in private; with his eyes searing and his lips bitten. He presses a hand on her back when he passes her in the kitchen, a hand that knows each and every contour of her body. His arm will be slung over the back of the couch and his fingers will play with the curls at the nape of her neck. He’d be looking at the TV, like it’s nothing at all, and she’d feel the happiest she has felt in a long time.

Aegon notices. 

Aegon notices everything, and it only makes him more aggressive. He kisses her whenever Jon walks into a room. He calls her _darlin’_ a lot. He buys her pastries and desserts. He sits on the couch on the other side of her, with his hand on her thigh. Sansa finds herself pleasantly surprised at his behavior—he hasn’t been so attentive to her since they graduated. But it earns her a lot more attention than she cares to have.

One day, Myranda was using their bedroom to mess with some guy, so she found herself at the Targaryen house trying to pass time. She was watching a Julia Roberts movie of some kind, but she was completely unable to pay attention to it with everything going on.

Jon was on her left, with his arm around the back of the couch and his fingers on her neck, just like always. He was looking at the TV but he wasn’t really watching. She could tell from the way his jaw was ticking.

Aegon was on her right, hand on her thigh, rubbing circles into her skin with his fingers. He couldn’t have looked more nonchalant, but Sansa knew better. 

But no one said anything. 

Not even when Rhaegar came home. He looked completely flabbergasted to find his two sons that previously couldn’t stand to be in the same room with each other, seemingly coexisting peacefully in the same space. 

“Is everything okay?” He asked warily.

Neither of then answered, but Aegon’s palm circled her knee and Jon’s fingers ran through her hair in response and Sansa forced herself to squeak out, “Yeah.”

Rhaegar’s eyes flickered toward the hand on her knee and then the hand in her hair. “Are you sure?”

“Just watching TV.” She forced a weak smile. 

He looked like he didn’t believe her. Then he looked between his sons again, before shaking his head. “Nevermind.” He left after that.

Sansa took that as her opportunity to escape and use the bathroom. She realized, staring into the mirror, that she hadn’t really thought this through. She thought she could do it—have them both. But apparently, she can’t handle the pressure that comes with that.

When she came out of the bathroom, she heard voices. She couldn’t help but linger. 

“I thought I was doing you a favor, letting you have her.” Aegon said.

“She’s not an object.” Jon snapped. “You can’t have her, and neither can I.”

Aegon continued as if he hadn’t said anything. “But I see you’ve gotten too comfortable. Are you in love with her?”

Jon didn’t say anything. 

“That’s even better.” He laughed. “When she leaves you for me, it’s gonna kill you. And I’m gonna get to watch.”

She couldn’t listen anymore.

Sansa fled the house, like a coward, and walked all the way back to kappa house. She cried the whole way. She thought about Jon not answering when he said he loved her. Did that mean he did or he didn’t? Would that only make things worse? Not to mention she still loved Aegon. She didn’t think she could just stop. 

  
  


She knew that she had to stop, to find a way to stop, but the thought of losing one of them made her chest hurt. For once, why couldn’t she just have everything?

* * *

After that incident, Sansa develops a system. Aegon gets her sunlight—her breakfasts and lunches and blue skied strolls. Jon gets her moonlight—her dinners and night caps and midnight indulgences. Sometimes, when she’s stupid enough, she gives him some of her day time, too. But only because she can’t help herself. 

That had been a mistake, because Aegon notices, and he brings it up like he brings every other conflict up—when he’s balls to the walls drunk. They’re at a party in some abandoned cornfield and he’s saying the worst things to her.

“How could you do this to me?” His breath smells like vodka. “Huh? How could you be like everyone else and choose him?”

Her chest aches, and she doesn’t see her boyfriend. Just the scared little boy who was desperately trying to escape the shadow his older brother cast.

“Like you chose Margaery?” Sansa’s voice shakes. “And Myrcella? And Alys? Please Aegon, _spare_ me. You are far from innocent.”

“They ain’t related to you, Sansa. They haven’t made your life a livin’ hell since the day you were fucking born. I would _never_ do that to you.”

She feels horrible, suddenly. Like shit. He had never told her this. She hadn’t even been thinking of him. But isn’t she always thinking of him? His feelings? His needs? When does he think of hers?

And she doesn’t feel so guilty anymore.

“Right.” She snaps. “You’ll just break my heart in other ways. How fucking kind of you.”

His pretty, angelic face darkens. 

Sansa can’t hear anymore. She turns to leave, but his voice stops her.

“You think he’s gonna marry you? He’ll leave you like he leaves the rest of us. You’re not special.” He spits the venomous words out. 

Her chest feels like he punched a fist right through it, shoving her heart out. Her lip trembles. She hunches her shoulders so they don’t shake.

“You’re nothing to him.” She feels his hand on her neck, a soft caress, but it feels like a collar. “But not to me.”

A sob breaks free from her throat, and she claps a hand over her mouth. 

_You’re more than that._ Jon had told her once. _So much more than that._

Sansa shoves his touch away, suddenly feeling incredibly grimy, and she stumbles out of the field. Her tears blur everything. She hears him calling her name, but she doesn’t respond. She takes her phone out, dialing the number unthinkingly.

Wylla answers the house phone at first, but she tells him to pick up the extension. Just like Sansa hoped she would. His voice is rough from sleep. “Hello?”

“Hi.” She sniffles.

“Hey.” His voice softens a bit, then.

“It’s Sansa.”

“I know.” He says. “Are you okay?”

Her eyes blurred. “Can you just come get me?”

He does. Nearly 20 minutes later and she’s getting in his car. At the stoplight, he runs a tentative hand through her hair. Sansa leans on his shoulder. 

“Are you okay?” He asks.

“It’s stupid.” 

“You’re upset.” He insists. “That’s not stupid.”

Her throat feels even tighter than before. 

“Can you just take me somewhere? I don’t wanna go home.”

Jon squeezes her hand. 

Sansa doesn’t recognize where they are. Jon leads her in the dark. It looks like an abandoned boathouse of some kind. The moon reflects on the lake.

“I’ve never been here before.” She says, when they sit down. 

“Really? I used to come a lot.”

“Alone?”

“No. I was with people.”

“With girls?”

Jon scowls, and she knows she’s right. But she isn’t mad. She laughs. “I’m just asking a question.”

“I don’t like that question.” He mutters. 

“Is that why you brought me here?” Sansa teases, leaning on his shoulder. “Am I your latest conquest, Professor?”

“You wish.” He says dryly.

But he has his arm wrapped around her and she’s never felt more safe and content. She wants to curl up inside of him.

“You never told me why you were reading about me.” He says after a while. 

“You never asked.” She points out.

He looks at her. “Can I ask now?”

The question is so sincere, so tender, she knows she would have given him anything he asked at that moment. She can’t deny him this. 

“It’s hard to explain.” Sansa says at last. “I don’t think I ever realized life existed outside of Westeros until you left. Like before it was just an abstract concept. There was no proof.”

Jon laughs at that. “The news? Radio shows?”

“Farces.” She smiles, but it fades. “I had this entire conspiracy because...bad things just kept happening to my family. And I couldn’t figure out what we did to deserve them.”

She felt him squeeze her fingers.

“My daddy died and I just couldn’t take it anymore. I wanted to leave, but I didn’t know anyone that ever left. Except you. But everyone acted like you didn’t exist. I was starting to think I made you up inside my head until I looked you up—and I found you. And your honor roll diploma and big city education and senior thesis.”

She tries to say it teasingly, but her eyes are burning and her chest feels tight. “You were real. You were the closest thing I had to real…. outside of this place. And I thought...if he could do it...maybe I could too. I used to wish you would feel homesick so you’d come back and take me with you.”

“I didn’t know.” He says quietly.

How could he have? Sansa wants to tell him she understands, that she doesn’t blame him, but that isn’t completely true. She isn’t sure what is true anymore. 

“I’d take you now.” His eyes burn into hers, almost desperately. “If you asked me to.”

It’s almost as if he’s begging her now, _ask me._ Part of her wants to. But the rest of her knows that she can’t. The rest of her is firmly grounded in reality. The time for running away is long past.

She doesn’t have any more wishes to give. 

“There’s only one thing I wanna ask you right now.” She forces her voice to be light and husky all at once, tugging at his belt. “Can I take this off?”

Rather than answer, he kisses her. It’s all rough and bruising. It’s a punishment as much as it is a reward. A demand and a plea. Sansa wants to give him everything.

She kisses his mouth and his jaw and his neck and collarbone. She goes lower. She kisses the inside of his thighs—just like he had done to her on their first night together—through his jeans. She unbuckles his belt.

“You don’t have to.” He says to her, even with her hand stroking him. “Sansa—”

Then her mouth is around him, sucking lightly. She watches his head fall back and a thrill rushes through her as she keeps going. He’s soft and warm and heavy on her tongue. She tries to take him all the way to the back of her throat and further, his moans only encouraging her.

“Don’t choke.” He says between pants, fingers in her hair. “Don’t hurt yourself. I don’t want you to.”

She doesn’t, moving her hand over him instead. She drags her nails against him softly and moves her mouth up and down. She is careful not to choke.

“I can’t. I’m gonna—you should stop. If you don’t want to….”

Sansa doesn’t change a thing, moaning just the way he likes. She listens to him protest all the way: _I don’t wanna force you—only if you like it._ But that turns into _Please,_ and _Angel._ She swallows around him before she swallows the taste of him.

He bowls her down, hovering over her and taking her mouth with his. His hands find their way between her legs, and his lips are moving down to work on her breast. She moans, louder than the crickets and the cicadas and the grass rustling.

She closes her eyes so she doesn’t see the stars in the sky.

She doesn’t make any wishes.

* * *

Sansa makes the half hour trip home that weekend. She doesn’t wanna see Aegon. She tells him that multiple times over the phone so he doesn’t end up on her porch and she doesn’t have to explain to her mama why they’re fighting.

“If we don’t talk now, we aren’t gonna get to talk until I get back.” He argued.

“Good.” Was all she said.

Aegon leaves for football camp on monday. Sansa is relieved. A line had been crossed during their last fight. She needs the space to think.

“I deserve that.” Aegon had said on the phone. “But I love you. And I know you love me, too. So can we just talk about this? Please?”

“Not right now.” Her voice cracked.

She hung up the phone.

Jon picks her up later. They head to his mom’s house. Just about everything is fixed up. It doesn’t even look the same. Sansa realizes it’s only a matter of time before he leaves. She doesn’t even have the courage to ask him when. 

“What are you so skippy about?” She asks after they drop the last of Lyanna’s things off at the five and dime.

He’s been in a good mood ever since he picked her up. She secretly wonders if it’s because he’s anxious to leave.

“Aegon is leaving tomorrow.” Jon says.

She’s so relieved that she laughs. “And that makes you happy?”

“Yes.” Then he kisses her hand. “Because he makes you sad.”

Sansa doesn’t say anything to that. Her heart is aching so much she wouldn’t be surprised to find her chest bleeding on the inside.

“And,” Jon leans into her. “Maybe I want you all to myself.”

That makes her smile. “Maybe?”

He pretends to consider it. “Maybe.”

She rolls her eyes, but he pulls her close to him and kisses her softly. She leans into him.

“My dad has a lake house outside of town.” He murmurs. “I was thinking about getting away for awhile. If you want.”

Getting away. Nothing but her, Jon, and a house. No Aegon. No westeros. Just the two of them. It almost sounds too good to be true. “Could we?”

“If you want.” He repeats.

Sansa lingers in his embrace, but secretly, she realizes that this is the problem. She does want to. She wants too much when it comes to him.

* * *

Sansa packs for the lake house the next morning. Jon would be picking her up at noon, and then they’d be together for as long as they could and everything would be perfect. 

“Aegon is here.” Arya says after barging into her room. 

Sansa zips her bag a little harder than necessary. “Tell him to go away. I don’t feel well.”

“That’s not polite.”

She turns around to find her mother standing with Arya, arms crossed over her chest. She looks severe.

“He got all dressed up.” Catelyn says. “He looks so handsome.”

Sansa bites her tongue on her automatic reply, I don’t care. But her mama notices because she notices everything. She narrows her eyes. “Are y’all fighting?”

If she wants her mama out of her business, she doesn’t have much of a choice. So she pushes past them and heads downstairs. 

Aegon is dressed very nicely, but Sansa has a feeling that has more to do with going to football camp than her. But he’s holding a bouquet of roses, and he looks mighty penitent. 

“What?” She says, quiet enough for only him to hear. She knows Catelyn is still watching.

“These are for you.” He tries to hand her the flowers. 

“What am I gonna do with those?” Sansa glares at him.

His brow furrows. She’s never been sarcastic with him before. “Put them in water?”

Catelyn comes forward, taking the flowers. “I think they’re lovely.” She beams at him. “I’ll go put them in some water.”

They’re alone again. They stare at each other. Sansa has never felt more far away from him. 

“My bus left 20 minutes ago.” Aegon says. “I missed it.”

“Why?” She stares at him, bemused. 

“Because you’re more important.”

She realizes that he’s holding a shoe box underneath his arm. He pops the lid and starts rummaging through it. He almost looks nervous. 

“What are you doing?” Sansa asks. 

  
  


He takes out a ticket stub. “These are the movie tickets from our first date. We went to see night of the living dead. You were scared shitless, and that made me so happy ‘cuz I got to hold you.” He picked up what looked like flowers. “These are the petals from every corsage I got you for every dance. Lilies. Carnations. Roses.”

“Aegon…” Her eyes are watering. Her throat feels thick.

“And this…” He finally looks up at her. “it was my mom’s.”

He holds a small velvet box in his hand. Sansa nearly stops breathing when he gets down on one knee.

“Marry me.” He says, voice level and even. “This was always the plan. It was always you. I know I haven’t been good at showing that—but I love you. I’ve loved you since I was 15.”

Tears spill down her cheeks, and Sansa shuts her eyes. She sees Jon’s face. She hears all of the wishes she gave him. 

She feels his hands on her cheeks and she opens her eyes. It’s Aegon staring down at her. Aegon who never left her. Aegon who will always be here.

“You love me too.” He whispers. “So just say you will. Say okay.”

Sansa shuts her eyes again.

She wants to see his face one last time.

* * *

Aegon drives himself to football camp, leaving Sansa with a big, shiny ring. Her mama is so happy. They get frozen yogurt to celebrate. It all tastes like ash in her mouth, as she listens to her mom talk about guest lists and bridesmaid dresses and venues. She’s so busy chattering, that when she gets home, Sansa is allowed to sulk on her own. 

“You look like you said yes to walkin’ the plank instead of walkin’ down the aisle.” Arya notes.

Sansa doesn’t say anything to that, just stares up at her ceiling. 

“Why are you so sad?” Arya asks. “Isn’t this what you always wanted?”

That was before. Back when Aegon had been her life raft while she was trying to find Jon’s beacon in the dark. And now she has both. A raft and a beacon. Except she’s going back the way she came. 

“I’m saying goodbye to my childhood.” Sansa answers flatly. “Of course I’m sad.”

Sansa lays there, curled up with a stuffed animal. She turns over and tries to pull her duvet over her body and finds her bag, still packed. She had forgotten about the lake house. 

She stumbles outside around 11. He’s not here yet. She waits for him on the porch, hugging her knees to her chest. Her heart pounds so hard it aches. 

Jon pulls up a few minutes after 12. He smiles when he sees her. “You ready?”

Sansa makes her way over to him, trying to find the right words. But nothing comes. She keeps opening her mouth and closing it. 

His grin fades. He’s come to know her so well, and she just doesn’t understand how. He comes toward her, and pulls her close to him. She’s so weak. She wants to crumple in his arms.

“What’s wrong?” He asks. His hands come up to frame her face, like Aegon’s did before. But his hands are warm and gentle. Not firm and demanding. His palms burn on her skin.

“Jon.” Her voice cracks, as her hand comes up to hold his wrist. Her left hand.

He notices the ring immediately.

Sansa watches it happen all on his face, the realization and then the betrayal. He backtracks from her as if she had slapped him, jaw tight. Then he turns to leave. 

She grabs his arm, and says his name again and again until she’s sobbing full on. “Please—”

He shrugs out of her hold, voice breaking. “Don’t.” 

“I was always gonna marry him. You knew that. You can’t be— _Please—_ ”

“I can’t be mad at you? I’ve spent the past two months as your dirty little secret, and I can’t be mad at you?”

“Like I wasn’t yours?” Her lower lip trembles. “Like the minute the house wasn’t done, you weren’t gonna go back to Yale—I didn’t have a choice! This is my _life,_ Jon.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” His eyes are bright and burning. “Come with me.”

Sansa just stares at him. 

“You hate it here—you told me yourself. You’re dying here! You don’t have to.” He grabs her hand.

“And what would I do? What would I do even at New Haven? Away from my family? Away from everything I’ve ever known?”

“Whatever the fuck you want. That’s a hell of a lot better than what you’ve got going on here.”

“Right.” Sansa grinds her jaw so she doesn’t cry again. “cuz you know what’s good for everyone in this town.”

“Fuck you.”

It comes out with such vehemence, such passion, it makes her flinch. The look he gives her isn’t much better. He’s looking at her like he’s never hated anyone more. It makes her want to die.

“Don’t try to make it seem like I’m on some fucking high horse when—” Jon cuts himself off just before his voice starts to break. “When I love you—and the thought of leaving you here to become everything you loathe kills me.”

Sansa squeezes her eyes shut, willing the words to leave her ears, his face to leave her brain. The love to leave her heart. She can’t stop crying, as if she’s made of tears.

“Do you hear me?” He says, voice a little softer, but still firm all the same. “I love you.”

“Until you get tired of me.” She whispers, trying to turn away from him. He stops her. 

“You think I’d get tired of you?”

“Aegon did.”

“I’m not Aegon. I love you. I’m in love with you.”

But would he still be in the real world? The same one where he forgot all about her before? Would he get tired of her clinging onto him to survive?

“Love is conditional.” She wraps her arms around herself. 

“Not this.” He tells her. “Not mine.”

“You said you waited for me.” He has his hands caressing her face again. “You said you wished for me. I’m here. It took me awhile, but I’m here. You have a choice now. Come with me. _Please.”_

Sansa swallows.

“I’m sorry.” She tells him.

His hands shake as he pulls away from her. 

She’s still in the driveway watching him leave, long after her car is gone.

* * *

August comes. Jon Snow leaves.

And Westeros acts like he never arrived in the first place. 

That’s the worst part, everything going back to how it was, except her heart. He’s inside of her. A part of her, maybe even more than Aegon is. As the months pass she gets used to pretending he isn’t. But sometimes, it’s hard to pretend. And when it gets too hard, she’ll lay in the pool house and in the sheets that still smell like him. 

Aegon pretends not to notice. 

School starts at the end of August. Sansa forgoes it because she’s so swamped with wedding planning. She hasn’t seen her mama so excited about anything in a long time. The only people more excited than her are the rest of the town. Everyone who is everyone is invited. Sansa picks Myranda to be her maid of honor, and the rest of her kappa sisters plus Arya make up what remains of her bridesmaid party. 

The wedding would take place at the Targaryen manor, as would the reception. Rhaegar decides to foot the bill for everything, but Catelyn is paying for the dresses. Which also means she gets a say in how they look. 

“I’m thinking blue for the bridesmaid dresses.” Catelyn chirps to the woman she has pulling dresses. “Robin egg blue. Everyone would look so ravishing in blue. Wouldn’t you say, darlin?”

“Yeah.” Sansa says from inside the dressing room.

“You need help zipping up?” Myranda calls.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Can we see it then? I’m not getting any older out here.” Arya calls out. 

Sansa had covered the dressing room mirror with her jacket, so the first time she sees how she looks in the dress is when everyone else does. She’s aware of them gasping and sighing. Her mother starts crying. 

Sansa is just staring at her reflection. 

The dress is lacy, with a sweetheart neckline. It clings to her frame nicely, and fans out at the bottom. One of the employees in the store comes up behind her, and drapes the veil over her head, smiling.

And suddenly, she can’t take it anymore. 

“I can’t.” She croaks out.

“You don’t like it?” Catelyn frowns.

“Get it off.” She says, louder. “Get it off.”

Arya hurriedly rushes to her side, unzipping the dress. It falls in a puddle at her feet. Back in the dressing room, she pulls back on her clothes. 

“Where are you going?” Catelyn demands. “Sansa!”

She leaves the shop, crossing the street without looking. Cars honk and people curse. Sansa doesn’t care. She just walks into the tuxedo store, where Aegon and his groomsmen are being tended to by Illyrio Mopatis.

“Hey.” Aegon greets her, kissing her cheek. “What are you doing here? You found a dress already?”

Sansa wills her voice not to tremble. “I wanna talk.” 

He stares at her for a long time. He knows something is wrong. He doesn’t want anyone else to know this. He turns to his friends. “Can y’all give us a minute?”

His friends leave, until there’s just them. Aegon opens his mouth to speak, but Sansa beats him to it.

“I love you.” She says. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” He says, and the relief that appears on his face makes her heart break. And so does the fact that she’s about to take it away. 

Her eyes burn with tears. “But I’m not in love with you. Not anymore.” 

Aegon steps back as if she’s hit him. 

“And you’re not in love with me either.” She continues, because now that she’s started, she can’t stop.

He opens his mouth to speak, and Sansa cuts him off.

“There are things you don’t do to someone you’re in love with, that you’ve done to me….And I’ve done them to you. Egg—we’ve been so cruel to each other.”

“People who love each other hurt each other sometimes.” Aegon says. He’s angry now. “That doesn't mean–”

“And when the hurt becomes too much, it turns into hate.” Sansa cups his face in her hands. “I don’t wanna hate you. Ever.”

“But I’ll hate _you._ ” His voice rises, and then cracks. “If you do this to me….I’ll never forgive you. So don’t—Please.”

“For the past five years, I’ve been putting you first.” She tells him. “And I just can’t anymore. If I don’t do this….I’ll hate myself.”

Sansa gives him his mother’s ring, and she leaves the first boy she ever loved behind. 

* * *

Her mother spends the entire car drive home yelling at her about her future. When that doesn’t work, she starts pleading with her to get back with Aegon. The minute the car stops, Sansa goes up to her room. She grabs her bag that she packed for the lake house last month and heads back downstairs. Catelyn is starting to yell again. Sansa steps forward and hugs her. 

She stops. 

“I’m sorry.” She says into her shoulder. “I’m sorry I disappointed you.”

A moment passes, and then two. Catelyn starts hugging her back.

“I just….I don’t understand you. I thought this was what you wanted.” She’s crying, now. 

“I don’t know what I want, Mama.” Sansa pulls back, eyes glassy. “But I know I’m not gonna find it here.”

She understands, then. She looks at the bag on her arm. Tears track down her face. “Will you come back?”

“Of course.” She hugs her tighter, stifling a sob. “I’ll always come back for you.”

“Where are you going?”

Sansa finds Arya standing by the door. She’s not crying. She looks like she already knows. And knowing her sister, Sansa doesn’t doubt that. 

“To the airport.”

Arya says. “I’ll take you.”

* * *

The leaves actually change color in Connecticut.

Orange, red, and brown. A brisk wind causes the fallen ones to swirl around on the floor. The end of September in Westeros means 80 degree heat and flats instead of flip flops. The end of September in New Haven means fall. 

Yale is impressive. 

She’d been on the virtual tour more times than she could count, growing up. She used to imagine that she’d get good grades and they’d accept her. And she wouldn’t back out, either, because Jon would be here with her. A little piece of home to reassure her she could do it. But that was just like everything else. A pipe dream. A wish. But not anymore.

She spent the night before in a motel. She had chickened out of finding him last minute. Her first night out of Westeros was spent alone on a lumpy mattress dreaming of him. In these dreams, he always turned her away. Or he had a new, cool, lady scholar on his arm. Or he told her that she was too late—he didn’t love her anymore. 

That was what motivated her to actually venture outside of her room today. She was already late—she couldn’t be a second later. Not when every second that passed was a second closer to him forgetting about her. 

There’s a directory in the administration building. Sansa finds his office very easily. It’s locked. So she lingers by it. She doesn’t allow herself to think the worst ( _what if he isn’t in today? What if he already left? What if he’s busy?)_ She waits. She watches students walk past her. None of them pay attention to her. They all look so normal. So content. She watches two girls laugh together. She watches a man ride his bike. She watches two men walk, coffee in hand. They’re dressed nicely. She thinks they might be professors. Upon closer inspection, she realizes one of them is Jon.

His hair is all tangled from the wind and he’s wearing a coat to shield himself from it. His lips are chapped and swollen from the cold. He manages to make his coffee cup look tiny in his hand.

Sansa feels like she’s been punched. 

He sees her, and he just stops walking for a second. His colleague, a considerably older man, notices this and looks at her as well. He leans in to talk to Jon, who says something back. Then the man leaves. 

And they’re closer than they have been in almost two months. 

She takes a deep breath, and decides to make the first move. She walks over to him. He makes no effort to meet her halfway, but he also makes no effort to leave. She’ll take it. She’ll take anything he’s willing to give her at the moment.

Despite her slow pace, her breath comes out ragged. “Hi.”

Jon’s face is impassive. He looks at her for a long time. Then he says, “What are you doing here?”

“Whatever I want.” Sansa tries for a tremulous smile. “That’s what you said, remember?”

“Does Aegon know you’re here?”

She deserves that. 

“I don’t know.” She swallows, massaging the inside of her palm. “I mean—I didn’t tell him, but...it’s not really his business anymore.”

Jon stares at her naked left ring finger.

He still doesn’t say a word. 

“I love you too.” Sansa chokes out. She isn’t sure if it’s the cold making her eyes sting, or him. She closes her eyes so he can’t see her tears. “I never told you that before….I wish I did. Now I have, so. That’s all.”

She doesn’t want to open her eyes. She’s scared that he’ll be gone when she does. But she opens them little by little, and she finds that he’s still there, and very close to her. His hand brushed her hair behind her ear. 

“What took you so long?” He says quietly, voice raw with emotion. 

“I was scared.” She wipes her tears away. “I’m sorry.”

Jon brings her in close, arms coming up around her. She’s missed this. His smell. His touch. His voice. His love. 

“Do you still love me?” Sansa asks, voice small. 

He looks surprised that she would even ask that, and she feels so relieved she almost falls into his arms. 

“Unconditional, remember?” He says into her ear. 

“I remember.” She says, and she holds onto him tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might do an epilogue. Comment if you’re interested! Thanks for reading!


	3. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s november. 
> 
> Christmas music is being blasted through Jon’s apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue is here! I really enjoyed writing chic hick sansa and turncoat yankee jon....I even enjoyed writing Aegon! So thanks for reading and I hope you’ve enjoyed this universe as much as I have.

It’s november. 

Christmas music is being blasted through Jon’s apartment.

The culprit is bouncing in her seat, singing along to the lyrics as she rummages through boxes of used ornaments—courtesy of Maege. She’s sorting all of the baubles by color, hardly paying any mind to him struggling with getting the tree up through the door.

“Don’t mess up my greens!” Sansa warns him as he waddles past her, narrowly missing the ornaments.

“God forbid I mess up the greens.” He mutters under his breath.

Jon makes quick work of screwing the tree into place before throwing himself on the floor. He makes sure to avoid the greens, reds, and silvers alike. He throws his sap covered gloves off to the side. 

Sansa looks up at the tree, and squints. “It’s kinda crooked.”

He groans. “Woman, you are _killing_ me.”

“Don’t go pitching a fit.” She admonishes, crawling over her piles of organized baubles. She straddles his hips. “I think it gives our tree character.”

Our tree. Jon likes that, the way he likes how she’s taken to recently referring to things as theirs. Our bed. Our home. Our christmas tree.

He rubs her denim clad legs. “Why do we need a tree this early again? Thanksgiving hasn’t even passed yet.

Sansa sighs, as she always does when he asks the same question. He does it so often because he loves her answer.

“ _Because._ It's a Stark family tradition that we trim the tree the day after Thanksgiving, but since I won’t be here, I want it ready to be decorated as soon as I get back.”

That is the part he likes the most— _when I get back._ Sansa was flying to Westeros for thanksgiving so she could spend it with her family. But she’s coming back. And that’s what matters.  
  
  


”You know what a decorated Christmas tree means?” She asks him.

”Pine needles everywhere?”

“No. Try again.”

”A fire hazard?”

”No.” Sansa huffs. “I’m referring to _presents,_ Einstein. And maybe if you aren’t such a scrooge, I’ll let you open a present early.”

He finds himself somewhat interested. “Is it a book?”

”If I tell you, that ruins the surprise.”

”I don’t like surprises.”

”Well that’s too bad.” She taps his nose. “But in the spirit of Christmas spirit—one of them is a book. The other one is something else.”

“Let me guess,” He tugs at the knit scarf around her neck. “The finest from Sansa Stark’s winter line?”

”No.” She scowls, blushing. Then she lifts his chin up. “But it is clothing. And it is black. With lace.”

Jon bolts upright so fast Sansa nearly falls back, but he catches her with an arm wrapped around her waist.   
  


“Why wait?” He says. “We can decorate the tree right now.”

”I knew you’d see it my way.” She says smugly.

  
He shakes his head. ”Such a demanding little thing.” Then he lays her down so she’s on her back, and kisses her senseless as she squirms happily underneath him.

* * *

Sansa has only been in New Haven for a month and a half now. Maybe he should be worried that one trip will mess up everything they’ve got going for them. Maybe he should be begging her to stay. But he isn’t.

The truth is, when she first came, Jon waited for her to say the words that his mom never had the courage to until he forced her. _I wanna go home._ He waited everyday, convinced that when he woke up next to her, that it could be his last time. He watched her shiver against the cold and held his breath. He watched her squint incomprehensibly at the unnecessary addition of lobster in random foods. He watched her nearly bust her ass on the ice and bite her tongue so she didn’t curse. He watched. He waited. The words never came.

Instead, Sansa took to knitting in her spare time so she’d never have to risk a patch of skin getting exposed to the cold again. She learned to preemptively ask for the seafood free options at the places they went. She bought boots with good grips at the bottom. She adjusted.

She made New England her bitch. 

She took her permit test and passed. She got a job at a jewelry counter in a department store, where her coworkers all fell for her immediately, because that’s what happens when people meet Sansa Stark. His colleagues weren’t any exception. Davos and Sam were begging her to apply at Yale next semester, but Sansa had already decided on the University of New Haven.

“You could get in if you wanted to.” Jon said to her one night. “You’re the smartest person I know.”

“I know that.” She was laying on his chest, fingers tracing his clavicle. “But how would it look if a student was dating a teacher?”

“No one would have to know. It’s not like Sam or Davos would tell.”

Sansa looked up at him again, glaring. “If you think I’m gonna go back to keeping us a secret, then you’ve lost your mind.” 

“It was just a suggestion. I wasn’t saying—”

“Well _stop_ saying it.” She muttered, cuddling close to him again. “You’re mine. And everyone can know it for all I care.”

The next day, he had to wear a turtleneck because there was a hickey half the size of Texas on his neck. There was no more talk of Yale. 

He couldn’t stop smiling the entire day.

* * *

  
  


Sansa is leaving tomorrow morning. Jon knows the moment he gets into bed with her that will be very apparent, so he avoids that at all costs. He washes the dishes. He responds to some emails. He grades some papers.

“Sometimes, I feel like I have to be a research paper to get your attention.” She says from behind him.

“Just let me finish this last one.” He says distractedly, marking the paper up with red. “I’ll be there in a second.”

Sansa snatches the pen up and slams it on the desk, turning his chair to face her. She’s wearing nothing but a little black night dress with cherries all over it. 

Jon’s mouth drops open almost comically.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come hold me since seven. Do you know what time it is now?”

He glances halfheartedly at his watch, which she covers with her hand.

“That was a _rhetorical_ question.” She rolls her eyes. “I meant it’s time for you to come hold me.”

Her eyes are all squinty, like they usually are when she gets bossy. He hides his smile in her neck. “Yes ma’am.”

Jon hoists her over his shoulder, listening to her shout in protest as he turns the kitchen light off. But when he sits her down on their bed, she’s laughing uncontrollably. Her cheeks are pink and her hair spread out on the duvet, flames licking the plaid pattern. Something in his chest aches, as he curls up behind her.

She fits herself against him like a slender puzzle piece, turning to face him. 

“I wish you’d come with me.” She says into his neck.

He wishes he could. He wishes he was normal, and could set foot in that town without all the hurt he suffered there compounding him at once. He would try one day, but not so soon. Not when he still felt like he had just barely escaped last time.

“Maybe next time, angel.” He tells her, and he hopes it’s true.

Sansa doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. They’ve gotten good at communicating through silences. Sometimes there’s nothing to say. This is her _alright, love_ silence. 

“You’re gonna get your bed all to yourself for a whole week without someone else hogging all the covers.” She jokes. “Are you excited to finally be warm?”

Jon traces the slope of her shoulder. “I’m never cold with you.” 

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it hard to leave.” She murmurs. “I’m already missing you.”

The ache he feels in his heart seems to lessen, then. Perhaps it’s knowing that his longing will be shared. Perhaps it’s knowing that he’s not alone in this, like he felt he was in the past with others.

“You go, and I’ll stay.” His nose brushes hers. “And we’ll be okay.”

Sansa leans into him. “We’ll be okay.”

Jon kisses her. She kisses him back. And he makes love to her like he has all of the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, follow me on my new tumblr @saintsansa for more of my writing!


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